


Another Mountain to Climb

by sara_holmes



Series: Puzzle Pieces [7]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky and Arto dealing with each other, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint Has Issues, Deaf Clint Barton, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Marriage Proposal, Parent-Child Relationship, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Thor Is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-08-31 23:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 60,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8597374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_holmes/pseuds/sara_holmes
Summary: So as if Clint pulling a nearly-dying stunt wasn't bad enough, Bucky now has to deal with Clint's sidekick/younger brother blaming him for the entire mess. Frankly, Bucky thinks a) that Clint should sort himself out and stop running away, b) Steve and Tony should put a leash on their kid, and c) Thor and his friends should back the hell off.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Counterpart 1.5. Set five years on from the original, when Arto is eleven. Takes into account all of the other Counterpart snippets and stories. So, if you haven't read Counterpart, you may be slightly confused as to how and where Steve and Tony got a kid from, and why said kid thinks Clint is his brother and also why said kid ~~hates~~ has issues with Bucky. 
> 
> And also a heads up - if you haven't read the first installment, you do need to know that Arto Rogers is a challenging child who was rescued from a background of neglect. He is five years on from that and is doing well, but still shows sometimes troubled and violent behavior.

“You are like the worst big brother ever, you know that?”

Even with all the yelling and ruckus in the room - and the fact they’re neck deep in enemy soldiers - Clint manages an indignant look over at Bucky in the second he has before he has to duck the swing from a yellow-suited AIM agent. He spins around and kicks the guy’s feet out, swinging his bow and hitting him full in the face with it for good measure. Goddamn beekeepers.

“Okay, he picked the film out, and I just didn’t argue with him,” Clint says, grunting as he ducks to hit another full in the midsection, flipping him over his shoulder. “Kid wanted to see some quasi-accurate roman ass-kicking, who am I to deny him?”

Bucky shoots him an amused look, grabbing hold of a chair and flinging it towards the door, knocking the incoming agents flat. They all crumple, lying on the floor and groaning. Obviously, Bucky does not look one bit concerned about the stunt; if anything, he looks quite amused by it, cocking his head to look at the way the chair is now embedded in the wall. “Seriously, though, Gladiator? It’s rated R, jackass.”

“Only for a bit of gore!” Clint says, drawing his bow and firing, neatly pinning the last agent standing to the wall. The guy yelps and starts shouting what Clint assumes are insults in rapid fire Italian. “He’s not exactly a delicate flower.”

“That he is not,” Bucky says, grabbing Clint by the arm and giving him a none-too-gentle shove in the direction of the East corridor. “Come on, we’ve got data to retrieve.”

“He loved the film,” Clint says, jogging behind Bucky. “And we’re in Italy, it’s appropriate! Besides, he wants to be a gladiator when he grows up, which I think is an admirable career-goal.”

“Okay, first of all he had no idea where we were going, and secondly, you’ll be lucky to see him grow up, Steve is _pissed,_ ” Bucky says with a snort. “Mostly about being woken at six AM by Arto shouting _‘am I not merciful’_ in his face.”

Clint starts to laugh, even as Bucky takes point and nods for him to proceed through the doorway to the next room after him. That kid, he swears to god. Even as he thinks about it he feels a familiar swell of pride and fondness. At eleven, Arto Rogers-Stark is a freaking wonderful _nightmare_ , all misdirected energy and tantrums, boundless love and fierce affection.

“Worth it,” Clint says as he skids to a halt next to the computer terminal. Well, it’s less of a computer and more a huge array of screens and hard-drives connected by a ridiculous amount of wiring. It’s humming pretty loudly, and he can almost feel the energy running through the system. He drops into the chair, and Bucky stands right behind him, hovering above him like an overprotective guard-dog, gun raised and pointed towards the door.

“You’re a terrible influence,” Bucky says, eyes narrowing as he sizes up what is about average AIM agent head-height in the doorway. “If anyone comes in I’m going for headshots.”

“You are not,” Clint says, pulling a flash drive from his pocket, and Bucky rolls his eyes but moves the guns down to average AIM agent shoulder-height. He looks up as there’s a shout from the room they’ve just barreled their way through. “Go. Non-lethal, remember. Or you’ll be the bad influence.”

“Kid hates me anyway, what’s it matter,” Bucky says, edging towards the door.

Clint nods to the latter, mentally shaking his head to the former. Arto doesn’t hate Bucky, not since the Lucky Charms incident of a few years back. He’s still a little...wary, though, sometimes. And other times he’s downright obnoxious to Bucky, so actually maybe he does still hate him a little bit. Clint’ll ask him when they get back from stealing data from AIM.

Bucky checks how many rounds he has left. “You got this?”

Clint shoots him a thumbs up. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Bucky gives him a withering look, and then he’s through the door with handguns raised, firing what Clint sincerely hopes are warning shots. If they’re not warning shots then Steve will have kittens and then they’ll have to fill in paperwork, and Bucky’ll probably get hauled in for another dressing down from Fury.

“All hail the Emperor,” Clint says to himself with a grin. “I’m totally watching that again when we get-”

He doesn’t finish.

He slips the flash drive in, and the moment it connects with the terminal it explodes in a pulse of energy that throws him clean out of his seat, across the room and into the wall. He feels something heavy hitting the floor behind him, gasping and trying to spit blood out of his mouth. The floor tremors beneath his palms, and he can’t hear anything past the ringing in his ears. He tries to reach for his bow, to move towards the door but then something hits him hard on his back, his legs, his shoulder. _I’m being buried,_ he thinks distantly, pain in every inch of his body, and then he thinks no more.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky feels the explosion hit like a freight train. It throws him and the one remaining AIM agent off of their feet, Bucky gasping in shock as the floor lurches from beneath him. He hits the floor on his back and has a brief moment of _what the actual fuck,_ and then he abruptly thinks, _Clint._

There’s a groan from the not-quite-dead AIM soldier and then a crash; the whole building judders even as he tries to scramble to his feet, gun still in hand. There’s nothing but a gaping concrete maw where the doorway used to be, and he stares at it for a single, everlasting second before he’s shocked into action by a bullet pinging off of his metal elbow. He turns and shoots the poor misguided AIM soldier dead before running back towards where he left Clint. His ears are ringing and he feels like he could throw up. Whether it’s from the ear-splitting headache he’s now carrying, or fear, he doesn’t know.

“HAWKEYE!” he bellows, coughing and holding his real hand over his nose and mouth. Dammit; his old Winter Soldier mask may be gone and burnt but at least it kept his airways clear. Hell, right now he _feels_ like the Winter Soldier all over again, unheeding of the danger around in as he goes in to complete mission critical objective.

_Find Clint. Recover Clint._

The building is still shaking, chunks of debris falling loose and lights bursting in showers of sparks as the power surges and wanes. It’s like that fucking trip into the Hydra facility to rescue Arto all over again, watching concrete walls crumble and sitting on top of a knot of fear because he has no idea if Clint is safe or not. He runs back into the room where he last saw Clint and his stomach winds even tighter as he sees nothing but fire and rubble, no sign of anything alive. Without pausing, he falls onto his knees and starts to dig through the rubble, heaving chunks of concrete and steel aside. His heart is starting to pound sickly in his chest, fear clawing its way up his spine. He fights it, focusing on his objective.

_Find Clint._

“Clint!” he yells again, coughing as the dust attacks his airways, and his right hand is torn and bleeding as he frantically digs but he doesn’t even notice. Just hauls a chunk of steel out the way and feels his heart nearly give out as he spots a dust-smeared boot, motionless in the wreckage. He redoubles his efforts, shoving a slab of concrete up and over with a furious snarl, dropping back down the moment Clint is revealed.

He’s lying perfectly still on his front. There’s not even a finger twitch or a rise and fall in his back, and below his left leg a pool of blood is slowly seeping across the dirt and dust.

“Please,” he mutters, pushing Clint over onto his back, barely able to hear his own voice over the still-insistent ringing in his ears. He presses blood-smeared fingers to Clint’s neck, eyes glued to Clint’s chest-

The faintest of pulses flutters under his fingertips. He curses on a shuddering breath, relief making him giddy; the feeling only intensifies as Clint coughs weakly and his chest starts to move. Oh god, there’s blood all over him and it’s not just from his leg or Bucky’s hand; it’s pouring from his nose and one of his ears and there’s _way too much of it._

“Clint,” Bucky says, leaning over him so they’re almost nose to nose, real hand pressing to his chest. “ _Clint._ ”

Clint doesn’t respond. Bucky curses viciously and reaches for him comm, clicking it on. “Base, this is Winter Soldier. Base, pick up.”

“Yeah, I got you Buck. You done with data extraction? Tony’s getting twitchy.”

It’s Steve on the other end of the line, and Bucky breathes out shakily. “Man down,” he says, voice forced steady. “Explosion, grade four. Hawkeye critical. Alive but unresponsive.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Steve curses, the conversational tone vanishing. “How bad is he?”

“He,” Bucky says helplessly. “He’s, he’s hurt - he’s.”

Steve’s voice cracks over the comm, in full Captain Mode. “Injury report, Soldier. Now.”

Bucky responds to it instinctively and immediately. “Head wound. Bleeding from nose and ears,” he says, his voice oddly steady. His hands track over Clint’s motionless body, checking. “Crush injuries to left leg. Possible crush injuries to torso. Breathing. Weak pulse. Pupils responsive.”

Even as he says it, he faintly hears the wailing of a siren somewhere in the distance, a deep off-key blaring that sounds furious. Steve must hear it too because he curses again. “Weigh up the risk, Buck,” he says, knowing just as well as Bucky that the room will probably be swarmed with terrorists in the next few minutes. “Tell me what will be worse, moving him or staying put?”

“I’m bringing him home,” Bucky replies, and then looks back to Clint. “I am so sorry,” he mutters, kneeling up and pulling his belt off, threading it around Clint’s calf, below his knee and just above the ugly wound on his shin. He apologizes silently again and then pulls it as tight as he can manage, the well worn leather holding fast. With the temporary tourniquet in place, he reaches over to slide an arm under Clint’s back and one under his knees, hauling him up off the floor. He tries not to think about the damage he could be doing, the way Clint’s head lolls back, blood still trickling from his mouth.

“Don’t you dare,” he says to Clint, hitching him up. Clint groans softly at the motion, his brow creasing in pain. “Hold on,” Bucky says, steeling himself and starting to walk towards the door. “We’re going home.”

Clint doesn’t respond at all. Bucky carries on walking, every step feeling like it’s taking too long. Clint is getting paler by the minute, weaker in Bucky’s arms. Bucky doesn’t even make a joke about it; no commentary about Clint doing it for attention, or being too lazy to walk his own ass out of the AIM base. Bucky is frightened, frightened in a way he’s not been since that mission five years ago, when he saw that Hydra base collapse, thinking Clint was inside. Christ, that was the moment he’d kissed Clint for the first time, his feelings bubbling over in spectacular fashion.

He clenches his jaw tightly, shoving through a door and into the stairwell. “You’ll have me fucking proposing, you ass,” he says, voice cracking. “ _Goddamnit._ ”

Something or someone must be looking over him for once, because he meets no resistance at all as he slips out of the facility. The alarm still continues to blare, through the sound grows ever fainter as Bucky strides away from the building, vanishing into the deserted streets nearby. He wishes violently that there were some way he could be less conspicuous, but with Clint unconscious he’s very short on options. He repeats his objectives to himself under his breath like a mantra, stepping in time with the words.

_“Recover Clint. First aid. Exit facility. Return to jet. Get home. Medical assistance. Mission report.”_

Steve would hate it, he always hates it when Bucky goes into what Clint and Tony both jokingly call Terminator mode, but right now Bucky can’t find any fucks to give. It’s getting him through, each muttered word carrying him closer and closer to the building on top of which the jet sits, waiting patiently to carry them back stateside.

_“Recover Clint. First aid. Exit facility. Return to jet. Get home. Medical assistance. Mission report.”_

He kicks open the door of the building and there’s a scream; a woman clutching the hand of a small child drops her grocery bags and backs up towards the stairs, babbling in petrified Italian.

“Spostare fuori strada!” Bucky snaps, and the woman gasps and sinks to the floor, clutching the child to her chest. The kid has huge great brown eyes, watching Bucky in abject terror, and even though the eyes are the wrong colour, he can only think of Arto staring at him like that. Shit, he didn’t mean to scare anyone.

“Non abbiate paura,” he tells her, dialling his voice down to something he hopes sounds less violent. “Don’t be afraid. I’m an Avenger. We’re here fighting the men who are taking your sons and daughters.”

The woman shakes her head again. “Non farci del male,” she pleads, and Bucky grits his teeth because he’s said he’s not going to hurt them, he just needs her to get out of his damn way. She’s looking more and more like she’s about to start screaming though, so Bucky simply gives up and steps over her and her child, carrying on up the stairs with Clint still held safely in his arms.

 _‘Should have come as Cap,’_ Bucky thinks bitterly, because even though he feels more comfortable in his Winter Soldier role, the Cap one has its perks, not limited to the public usually trusting him at face value rather than looking at him like he’s just murdered their firstborn. The jet is there, exactly as they left it. He disengages the retro-reflectors and opens up the back, climbing aboard and lowering Clint down to lie on the stretcher at the back. He checks his pulse again, then reaches up to his comm. “Jarvis, uplink me to the jet. Steve? You there?”

“I’m here,” Steve says immediately. “Update.”

“Aboard the jet,” he says, carefully lifting Clint’s arms so they’re resting on the stretcher instead of hanging down, limp and unresponsive. “Clint is still unconscious-”

“Okay, strap him in, do what you can,” Steve says. “Is he still bleeding?”

Bucky checks Clint’s ears, nose and leg; thankfully the bleeding seems to have stopped on all accounts. “No,” he says, exhaling heavily and trying not to react to the heavy, metallic smell of blood in the air. “I looped his leg with my belt, it’s definitely broken but it’s not bleeding any more.”

“Okay, if he’s lost a lot of blood he’s going to need fluids. Can you get a line in him?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and he’s reaching up to grab a medical kit from the locker above his head. His metal fingers are steady even as his real ones tremble against the heavy-duty plastic. Silently thanking Clint for insisting on wearing his sleeveless tac-vest, Bucky efficiently slips an IV into the crook of his elbow, holding it steady before taping it down.

“Starting fluid treatment,” Bucky says. “Thousand mils - Jarvis, keep an eye on his hemodynamics. Can I give him morphine?”

“No point if he’s KO’d,” Steve’s voice says without a hint of apology. “Splint the leg if you need to and if you can.”

“Copy,” Bucky says tersely and takes a moment just to curl his hands around the edge of the stretcher, breathing in and out through his mouth. He closes his eyes for a long second and then pulls himself together, opening his eyes and making his hands move again. He manages to strap Clint’s leg up and then ignores what Steve said and gives him a shot of painkillers anyway, knowing he’ll appreciate it if he wakes up.

When he wakes up.

“Buckle up,” he says roughly, and leans down to press a kiss to Clint’s forehead, checking the straps that hold him in place one last time before clambering through into the pilot’s seat. He’s just in time; even as he thumbs on the engines, there’s the whine and crack of a bullet pinging off of the body of the jet.

“Fuck off,” Bucky snarls, gunning the jet’s engines and making alarms blare as he takes off with slightly too much throttle. He ignores it; he knows how this thing works, and it has a big zone in-between alarms and malfunctions that he can work in. Not that he'll ever admit that in front of Tony; he'd be appalled at Bucky's treatment of his precious jet.

_Recover Clint. First aid. Exit facility. Return to jet. Get home. Medical assistance. Mission report._

“Cap, I’m airborne,” Bucky says as he takes the jet in a steady incline up above the city, the quickly setting sun glinting off of the glass. “ETA six hours.”

“Alright,” Steve says, voice steady. “Keep talking to me, Buck.”

“We got in without a problem, just had to fight through your average ground troops. Found the data point, but the whole damn terminal exploded,” Bucky says, and then stops himself talking. There’s a long silence and then when Steve speaks again, his voice is quiet and gentle.

“Just me here, Buck. I’ve sent Tony to oversee prep in medical.”

Bucky feels a lump in his throat; trust Steve to know exactly what he was thinking. “I,” he begins, and clears his throat. “I wasn’t with him,” he says. “He was on his own.”

He hears Steve exhale heavily. There’s no insisting that it wasn’t Bucky’s fault, nothing telling him to stop feeling guilty. Steve knows it’d be pointless trying either.

“Get him home, Buck.”

Bucky exhales and slumps back in the chair. “You gottit, Cap.”

 

* * *

 

The moment the jet lands, its swarmed by Avengers and medics alike. It’s dark in New York, as dark as it ever gets, the sky glowing orange from the thousands of lights below, stars smothered and invisible. Even in the darkness, Bucky can see Steve right at the front, looking like he’s going to physically remove the back door if Bucky doesn’t get it open soon.

“Give me ten seconds to power down, asshole,” Bucky snaps, at the end of his tether after six hours of flying, six hours of silence and the blip-blip-blip of the sensor attached to Clint’s finger, occasionally punctuated by Steve asking for updates or giving him words of encouragement in a voice that had been way too calm by Bucky’s reckoning. He cuts the engines and disengages the back door, feeling the cold bite of the wind swoop in the second it’s open.

“Alright, Buck, get one end,” Steve is saying, already at Clint’s side and reaching over to unhook his IV bag from the side of the jet. His wedding ring glints in the light as he leans forwards, swinging on the thin chain around his neck. Sam is there too, climbing aboard and gesturing for Bucky to move. “They’re waiting for him. Move, Sam’s going to stow the jet properly-”

Bucky bites back a retort about giving him five fucking seconds already, climbing out of his chair and pushing past Sam without pause nor apology, moving to take the end of the stretcher.

“On me: one, two, three,” Steve says and they’re lifting him out of the back of the jet and onto the landing platform, bracing himself against the wind. “Easy does it, Buck.”

As they step towards the tower, the lights reveal Steve’s pale face and the redness around his eyes. Bucky feels an irrational and violent surge of anger; Steve cannot fall apart right now. He needs to hold it together, because Bucky can’t and _won’t_ be the one holding them up this time.

He bites the inside of his cheek as a medic leans over, managing to walk and lift Clint’s eyelids at the same time, shining a light into them. “Alright, good pupil response,” she says. “How much has he had, Barnes?”

“Standard med-kit dose,” Bucky says, even as Steve gives him a look of something between exasperation and despair. He ignores it, carefully maneuvering the stretcher through the open doorway into the corridor beyond. It’s warmer inside, but Bucky barely notices.

“Okay,” the medic says, and Bucky’s stomach lurches as she reaches over to write ‘6mg’ on Clint’s forehead with her pen. It’s like being back in the war all over again, smearing blood on people’s faces to keep track of the number of surettes they’d been stuck with-

“Buck, stay with me,” Steve’s voice says, echoing and distant, but Bucky’s barely listening. He’s watching Clint’s face, even as they heft the stretcher onto a trolley that’s flanked by Bruce and yet more fucking medics. They’re too loud and they’re all talking at once, and two of them are trying to wheel the trolley away towards the elevator-

“We’ve got him,” Bruce says gravely, taking the IV bag from Steve. “Bucky, let go.”

Bucky realises he’s still holding on, his metal hand somehow locked around Clint’s wrist. “No,” he says without thought. Clint’s eyes still aren’t opening, and there’s blood, too much blood on his face-

“You need to let him go, we’ve got to get him in-”

“I’m coming with him,” Bucky says blankly.

“Bucky, let go.”

“No-”

He breaks off with a wordless shout as hands as strong as his own pull him away. Clint’s wrist is jerked from his grasp and he tries to lunge after him, but Steve has his feet planted wide and is using all his strength to heave Bucky back. Bucky throws an elbow back and it catches Steve hard in the chest; he hears Steve grunt in pain but he’s not letting go, and he manages to wrestle Bucky to the ground right there in the corridor.

“No,” he manages to choke out, hearing the elevator doors slide shut without him, but Steve has his chest to Bucky’s back and his legs are hooked over Bucky’s thighs, one hand on his forehead, keeping his head tipped back.

“Stop,” Steve says, his voice strained. “Easy, Buck, _easy._ ”

“Let me go,” Bucky begs, still trying to wrest free. “ _Steve._ ”

“They’ve got him,” Steve says, and his arms tighten around Bucky. “They’ll fix him up, he’ll be alright.”

Bucky draws in a shuddering breath, going limp in Steve’s grip. “W- where’s Arto?” he asks, and he feel Steve bury his face in the back of his neck.

“With Tony,” he says, and his voice is thick and wavering. “Tony’s got him. He doesn’t know anything.”

“Clint was-” Bucky begins, because somehow it seems important to tell Steve that Clint was talking about Arto, was thinking about Arto, that he’s always got half an eye on Arto, but the only noise that comes out of his mouth is a scream, shredded and raw.

 

* * *

 

Bucky doesn’t know how long he and Steve sit on their asses in the dim light of the corridor. It’s long enough that he stops screaming, stops fighting, can’t do anything but slump back against Steve and count the thuds of his own pulse as he tries not to think about Clint’s pale face. To his credit, Steve doesn’t try and talk to him, doesn’t do anything but hold onto him, leaning back against the glass wall that separates them from the darkness and cold outside. It’s only when Bucky moves - just the slightest flex of his metal fingers - that Steve speaks.

“You did good,” he says softly, and it’s not what Bucky was expecting at all. He feels his throat go tight and dammit he’s not going to cry because he’s not cried since he fought with Steve all that time ago, back when he couldn’t remember who he was or what he was doing.  

Back when Clint was the only friend he had.

Fuck.

Steve doesn’t make a comment about the tears, just shifts a little and then slots his hands under Bucky’s armpits, shoving him up onto his feet. He clambers up, brushing down his sweatpants.

“Jarvis, update.”

“Agent Barton is alive and currently in the hands of the team surgeon.”

Bucky feels dread hit him like ice, closing up his throat with frightening speed. Steve blanches, going absolutely white - as pale as Clint had been after losing after half his fucking blood - and makes a move like he’s about to grab hold of Bucky again. Unfortunately for Steve, Bucky knows how to evade him.

“I’m going,” he says, already halfway down the corridor. Steve is a fraction of a second behind him, grabbing hold of Bucky’s wrist and trying to stop him.

“Don’t do it to yourself, Buck,” he says, sounding like he’s in tears too. “Just wait.”

“Let go or I will throw you through the window,” Bucky says calmly, and Steve lets him go like his metal wrist has suddenly burned him. The elevator doors slide open and Bucky steps in, holding out a hand in an indication for Steve to stay back. Steve doesn’t, just sets his jaw and steps in, knocking aside Bucky’s hand.

“Stop,” he says. “Bucky, I get it alright-”

Bucky’s lip curls. “Yeah? How many times have you let Tony get blown up, huh?”

Steve flinches, eyes closing tight. His nostrils flare as he exhales, and Bucky waits for him to admit that he’s never had to go through this-

“Twice, but who’s fucking counting,” Steve bites out, and Bucky immediately feels like the world’s biggest asshole. He bites down, jaw clenching hard as he tries to keep control, watching the numbers on the display panel flick down until they’re finally where he needs to be. He steps out of the elevator and then stops dead; the central bay of the medical suite is empty but off to the side, one of the sterile rooms is a hive of activity.

“No,” he says blankly, walking up to the glass wall that separates the room from the main bay. He can see blue scrubs and blood, flashing monitors and gleaming scalpels. He can barely see Clint, only a fragile looking wrist and motionless hand; he’s blocked by green sheeting and eight different medics. _Eight_. They only sent over six the time Steve got mauled by the hydracarrier turbine.

He fears footsteps behind him, a hand resting on his shoulder. “Buck, come away,” Steve’s voice pleads for the tenth time. “You can’t help.”

Bucky doesn't move. “If he dies,” he says, watching unblinkingly through the window. “I’m going to kill him.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky stands there by the glass wall for five hours and twelve minutes, not that he’s aware or counting. He watches Clint’s heart stop once, watches the medics coax it back into life with two minutes of frantic CPR. He watches the surgeon cut Clint open and stitch him back together again. He watches as Clint is hooked up to a ventilator, watches every rise and fall of Clint’s chest, watches every single move the damn medics make.

Finally, it’s over. The room has turned from frantic to calm, and the medics are moving away. Four of them leave as a group, silent and exhausted. Two more leave not long after. When only two are left, Bucky lifts his hand and raps on the glass window. Looking up, the remaining medics glance at each other, and then one nods and cautiously beckons him inside.  Stomach twisting up somewhere behind his sternum, Bucky pulls open the glass door and steps over the threshold. The medic tries to hand him a surgical mask and gloves but he doesn’t even stop, just strides over to the bed, needing to see Clint before he loses his goddamn mind.

It’s a shock when he does get close. The ventilator is gone, but Clint is still so, so pale. He’s not moving either, and Bucky has way too much experience with dead bodies and it’s making him feel like he’s going to puke.

“He’s stable,” a doctor type tells him. Burge, Bucky recalls. The woman who had reset his shoulder that time after the episode with the tank, and who had led the team patching turbine-shredded Steve back together. “He had some serious internal bleeding caused by crush injuries, so we’ve had to remove his spleen.”

Bucky looks at her in horror.  _ “What?” _

“He doesn’t need it,” Burge says with a shrug, and okay, her blasé demeanour is only funny when it’s directed at himself or Steve. They heal, for fuck’s sake. Clint is way too breakable for her to be talking like that. “A non-vital organ. We’ve repaired a tear to his liver, too, and splinted a broken tibia and fibula. He has a broken wrist too, we’re going to splint that the moment we take his cannula out.”

A broken wrist? Bucky thinks of how he’d held onto Clint earlier, with his metal hand nonetheless. Fuck. He tries to level out his breathing as he listens to Burge continue.

“He’s pretty heavily sedated, but providing he doesn’t decide to rupture any more organs in the next few hours, he’ll be fine.”

Bucky closes his eyes for a long moment and decides not to object to the not-as-funny-as-she-thinks-it-is commentary about Clint and his internal organs. “I’m staying here,” he says.

Burge shakes her head. “We’re going to move his cannula and-”

“I’m staying,” Bucky repeats, and she backs off, holding gloved hands up in surrender.

“Then at least put the face-mask on, he’s going to be immunocompromised now he’s missing his spleen-”

Bucky isn’t listening. He’s carefully sitting down in a chair beside the bed, eyes on Clint’s face. The doctor seems to give up pretty quickly - she only usually gives up in the face of Steve’s abject stubbornness. Bucky normally gets more hassle than this.  He takes hold of one of Clint’s hands, the one not connected to the wrist that’s covered in fingerprint shaped bruises.

“Alright, have it your way,” Burge says. “We’ll give you some time, but we’re coming back later to finish up.”

He doesn’t bother to reply, even as Burge and the last medic leave, carefully shutting the door behind them. He breathes out heavily, grateful for the privacy and the silence, even though a large part of him wants to get Clint out of the awful sterility of the medbay, to take him back to their rooms and hole up in there where it's safe and comforting. 

“Hey,” he says, his voice shaking. He reaches out, touches Clint’s cheek. “It’s me, asshole.”

Clint doesn’t even respond. Bucky feels his face crumple and he tips his head back, breathing in and out heavily through his mouth, composing himself. He manages it, just. He looks back down, and uses trembling fingers to gently lift Clint’s hand to his lips.

“Why do I only ever realise how much I love you when I think you’re dying or dead,” he whispers. He feels more tears on his face and wipes them away roughly with the back of his metal hand. It doesn’t help. He clenches his jaw tight, holding onto Clint’s hand and watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, the proof that he’s still alive, that he’s not dead yet.

“Please wake up,” he whispers. “Come on, Clint. I need you. We all need you. You need to come back and be a terrible big-brother all over again.”

The words catch in his throat.

_ Arto. _

Bucky swallows hard. That doctor better be right about how stable Clint is, because if Clint doesn’t make it then Bucky doesn’t think it’ll be just him that loses it. Arto already has a pathological fear of losing people, the intensity of which has only diminished slightly over the past five years. Just look at the hell he kicked up last year when he thought Tony wasn’t marrying Steve because he was going to bail. If he finds out how close Clint was to death-

Bucky has to stop as his mind stutters over the thought, flashing back to the medics leaning over Clint’s chest, compressing his sternum with heavy hands. He has to physically shake his head to stop the memory replaying.

“This is-” he begins, but he doesn’t know how to say it.  _ Why I shouldn’t love you, _ he thinks, but he’s aware of just how selfish that is. He knew that deciding to stay with Clint and Steve would mean opening himself up to be vulnerable in a way he’d not been since nineteen forty-five, but it had meant he had friends again. A family. 

“You get through this and I’m going to marry you,” he says, reaching out to push Clint’s hair away from his forehead. “Then you’ll legally not be allowed to go anywhere.”

He knows it makes no sense, know he’s talking crazy and sounding altogether more like Tony than himself. He almost laughs at the thought; Tony Stark is a die-hard romantic and everyone knows it. Bucky and Clint are more...well. Neither of them are hot on the romance side of things. Honestly, they just hang out and fuck, but Bucky knows it’s more than that because of the part of him that never wants to be apart from Clint, not ever. 

The sound of the door opening again makes him lift his eyes away from Clint's face; he's expecting Burge but goes tense as he instead finds Natasha. She walks over without pause, going around to the opposite side of the bed and leaning over. Her face is pinched and drawn, eyes tracking restlessly over Clint's body. Bucky doesn't speak. He doesn't know what he'd say.

“Emma says he's stable,” Natasha eventually says.

Bucky frowns. “Emma?”

Natasha looks at him sharply. “Burge,” she says, sounding angry for some reason that Bucky can’t fathom. “You know that, you know who she is. She’s treated you enough times. Your memory is fine these days so maybe you just don’t care enough to remember.”

Bucky glares at her. “Back off, Romanov.”

Her mouth presses hard. “So we're back to last names, too.” 

Bucky watches as she leans forwards and kisses Clint's forehead; it bites at him in an acidic surge of jealousy. He swallows against it, but it only intensifies as Natasha reaches out to gently stroke Clint’s face. He's on his feet before he knows it, grabbing hold of her wrist and pulling it away from Clint’s face. 

“You've broken one wrist already,” Nat says, her shaking voice betraying how upset she is. “You think Steve will be happy if you make it two?”

It's a low blow but it works; Bucky lets her go, shoving her away from him with maybe too much force; she staggers back a few steps, but manages to right herself. Eyes fixed on his, she weighs him up for a moment and then steps back towards the bed but this time her hands settle on the edge of the bed in what Bucky recognises as a compromise.

“I love him too.” Nat says quietly. “Not like you do, but I love him. We all do. You're going to have to-”

“If you say calm down I might lose it,” Bucky interrupts. 

“Bucky,” she implores, holding out a hand. “I was going to say that you're going to have to share.”

“I do share,” Bucky says, distractedly thinking of the - admittedly, limited - time he and Clint spend not in each others pockets, thinking of every minute that Clint spends with Arto. “I'm nice like that.”

“I'm just trying to say that you can't do what you usually do and lock him away and stand guard until he's better, he’s not  _ yours _ -”

“What are you even talking about?” Bucky demands. “Christ, you show up putting your hands all over my boyfriend and telling me he’s not mine? Where are you getting off on this?”

He only realises his voice has risen to a shout when another voice booms out over his own, making him whip around reflexively. His metal fist comes up in an instinctive fight mode, fuelled by anger and adrenaline.

“That is enough!” Thor calls, frowning as he strides over. Even in his regular civvies he looks about ready to start knocking heads, though the fact he has Mjolnir in hand certainly doesn’t help. “Now is not the time for arguing, least of all over who has the biggest claim on love.”

“Fucking tell her that,” Bucky snaps, lowering his fist and deliberately not feeling bad about the display of aggression. He is fucking  _ tense  _ and these jokers aren't helping.

Thor breathes in and out deeply, looking at Bucky evenly and without judgement. “Barnes, we know how you feel about Clint. We won’t undermine nor underestimate that. Natasha, Barnes will not take Clint away from you, he will allow you to be at his side as he recovers.”

Natasha nods stiffly and then seems to deflate, shoulders slumping.  “I'm sorry. I get crazy when he gets hurt.”

“You and me both,” Bucky mutters. “But Jesus fuck will you lot stop expecting me to be the rational one here, I can’t be dealing with your bullshit-”

He can't go on. He feels as well as hears his voice crack and stops talking, sinking back into the chair and covering his face with his hands. It goes terribly quiet, the only sound in the room their breathing. He hears Natasha move, and a gentle hand settles on his shoulder.

“I'm sorry.”

The soft words only serve to ignite hot anger in Bucky's chest again. 

“ _Stop,_ ” he says, feeling fractious and raw. “I just watched the love of my life die and get resuscitated after getting blown up and you're all here talking about nothing that fucking matters, expecting me to stand back and keep out of the way when all I want to do is keep him safe-”

He hears Thor speak again, voice low and firm.

“Fetch Steve.”   


“You don’t need to fetch Steve,” Bucky shouts, voice cracking again. “Will you all just fuck off and  _ leave us alone. _ ”

He hears Thor say something else, but he’s not listening. Feeling overwhelmed, he clamps his hands over his ears and focuses on breathing in and out, in and out. He knows Natasha is upset, he knows that everyone is feeling it but no matter what Nat says, Clint is  _ his,  _ is the reason he’s still alive and functioning, the reason he has a family. It takes a good long while, but he eventually manages to look up and he feels like an utter asshole all over again because Natasha and Thor are gone. Dammit, he didn’t mean that Nat had to go, he knew that she wanted to be there, he just wanted her to understand that…

He doesn’t even know. Again, the mad thought of putting a damn ring on Clint’s finger comes to the front of his mind, because then everyone would know, no-one would ever underestimate the bond between them and what it means.

Taking a deep breath, Bucky pulls himself together. He stands up to check Clint over again, resting a gentle hand on his chest to feel the rise and fall of every breath, watching his pulse gently flickering in his neck. He checks his pupils, his vitals, silently tells him to wake the fuck up. Of course, Clint is a contrary son of a bitch and does no such thing.  Bucky straightens up, resting his hands on the back of his head and heaving out a sigh. He’s getting steadily more anxious with every passing minute, and he’s starting to get a tell-tale tremble in his right hand that speaks of his own exhaustion and hunger. It used to be seven or eight days before it set in, but now he lives with the team and is used to his creature comforts, he can only go about three.

“Gonna go grab a drink,” he says to Clint, leaning down to kiss him. “Wake up while I’m gone, yeah?”

His mouth twists in a pained smile, and he makes himself step back, turning towards the door-

Oh  _ shit. _

Because that’s not Steve that’s standing at the door, peering in through the glass window and looking terrified. That’s someone who looks like a damn sight like Steve, but who is nowhere near as tall nor grown up.

The moment Arto notices that Bucky has seen him, he bolts. Bucky moves without thinking, shoving up out of his chair and running across the medbay. He gets as far as the door when a noise from behind him makes him stop; he looks over his shoulder and his stomach lurches as he sees that  _ Clint is moving,  _ a restless hand shifting against the blankets, head turning on his pillows.

“Fuck you and your sense of timing,” Bucky curses, heart hammering as he doubles back to Clint. “Jarvis? Tell Steve that his spawn made it to the medbay and that Clint is waking up.”

“As you wish,” Jarvis replies, and Bucky is already there at Clint’s side, taking hold of his good hand and willing him to keep moving, to fight through the haze of drugs and pain.

“Buck.”

It so faint it’s barely a word, but it makes his heart feel like it’s doubled in size, the anxiety that had been twisting around his innards dissipating like mist in the sunlight. He leans over Clint, taking his hand in both of his own.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he says. “Clint, come on sweetheart.”

And normally Clint would be giving him hell over the pet name, but he doesn’t respond. His brow furrows into a frown and he tries to open his eyes. “Buck?”

“Yeah, I’m right here,” Bucky repeats, but Clint is struggling to move now, his fingers trying to grip onto Bucky’s. His eyes open blearily, and he blinks a few times before looking around.  

“Buck,” he croaks out. “You’re-”

“Yeah I’m here, you not listening again, jackass? God, I could kill you, you know what happens when you get hurt, I get all…Clint?”

And Clint is staring at Bucky with an unreadable expression on his face. He tries to lift the hand in the cast, gives up and pulls his hand free from Bucky’s. He reaches up, his fingers prodding at his ear.

“I can’t,” he slurs. “Bucky, I-”

“You can’t what?” Bucky asks, but Clint acts like he’s not even heard. With what looks like monumental effort, he lifts his other hand, pressing both of his palms over his ears. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something but then his eyes roll back and he’s slipping under again, hands falling limp against the pillows.

“Clint,” Bucky says, and then again, louder.  _ “Clint.” _

Clint sleeps on, mouth hanging slightly open. He looks exhausted, but at least he looks alive now. Bucky watches him, feeling unnerved. Something isn’t right, he can feel it.

A soft sound from the doorway makes him look up, and he starts cursing internally. Natasha is back but she’s not alone; Steve is there too, with one hand on Arto’s shoulder and the other gently knocking on the glass. He gestures to Bucky, a clear ‘ _ can we come in?’ _

Bucky is torn. Arto looks like he’s been crying his eyes out, and his lip is still wobbling. Bucky doesn’t want to say no and have Arto kick off, because then Steve will have to deal with him and he looks dog-tired already. He glances back at Clint, replaying the one-sided conversation they’ve just had, still worried.  He dips his chin in a single jerky nod, and Natasha pushes the door open, letting Steve and Arto in first. Arto is clinging to his hand like his life depends on it, and Steve has to stand behind him and gently nudge him forwards his with body. Natasha says something to them both but Arto shakes his head violently and turns to Steve, reaching up in an old gesture to be picked up. He’s way too big for it these days, but Steve acquiesces without even a token protest. Lucky for him that Arto is on the small side for an eleven-year-old.

“See, he’s okay, he’s just resting,” Steve tells Arto. “He had to have an operation to fix part of him, but the doctors did it and he’s fine.”

“Why won’t he wake up?” Arto asks, sounding fearful. His skinny arms tighten around Steve’s neck. “If he’s okay he should be awake.”

“He just woke up a minute ago,” Bucky tells him, and Natasha makes an involuntary sound, stepping closer. She wraps her fingers around the bars on the edge of the bed, but doesn’t make any move to touch. Bucky ignores it for now. “He just fell asleep again. He’s real tired, Short-Round.”

Arto nods, but his chin is wobbling and his eyes are filling with tears.

“You want to stay or you want to you go?” Steve asks him gently, nudging the side of his face with his nose.

“Stay,” Arto says. He wriggles and Steve puts him down; Bucky stands still and lets Arto approach, bright eyes taking everything in. “He broke his hand,” Arto says slowly, fingers curling around the metal bars of the bed.

Bucky nods, ignoring the clawing guilt and certainly not looking at Natasha. “His wrist. And his leg.”

Arto nods. “Can I sit with him?” he asks.

Steve runs an agitated hand through his hair. “Not with him, you’ll have to sit on the chair.”

Arto makes a noise of protest, and Bucky steps in. “Come on, he’ll be alright,” he says, and reaches out to lower the bars on the right side of the bed, the opposite side to Clint’s broken leg and wrist. “Nat, give me a hand. Art, get up, don’t pull on any wires.”

Steve gives him a tiredly reproachful glare, a  _ thank you for undermining me _ glance that’s well worn. It’s usually directed at Tony or Clint, but this time Steve doesn’t seem to want to engage in a battle with either Arto or Bucky, and the face quickly vanishes.

Careful not to jostle Clint more than necessary, Bucky and Natasha raise the top half of the bed to a slant. The moment he gets a nod from Steve, Arto clambers up onto the bed with a helping hand from Nat. He snuggles into Clint’s side, fingers clenching hold of the gown that the doctors put Clint into after surgery.

“Don’t touch his stomach or his chest, he’s had surgery,” Bucky tells Arto. Arto makes no sign that he’s listening, turning his face into Clint’s shoulder.

Sighing, Bucky turns to Steve and Nat, beckoning them around. He only really wants to talk to Steve, but he can’t shut Nat out. “Something’s wrong,” he mouths, turning his back so Arto won’t see.

Steve frowns, glancing back at Clint. “The doctors gave him the all-clear, right? Other than recovery for the injuries they patched up?”

“I don’t know. He woke up, but something wasn’t right,” Bucky mutters in an undertone. “He kept asking for me, and I was telling him I was there, but it was like he wasn’t even listening, he just kept staring.”

Steve bites his lip, puts his hands on the back of his neck, exchanging a worried look with Natasha. “You think he’s hit his head? They’ve missed a head injury?”

The knot in Bucky’s stomach winds tighter. He shivers. “I don’t know,” he says, and his eyes feel too warm again. “But something’s not right, I’m telling you.”

“Clint!”

They both wheel around at Arto’s shout; he’s sitting up and looking excited, fingers plucking at the neck of Clint’s gown. “He’s moving! Wake up, Clint, wake up.”

Clint makes a rough noise in the back of his throat, face twisting in pain for a moment before he forces his eyes open. His eyes open more in surprise as he sees Arto right in front of him, then his mouth curves in a wobbly smile.

“Hey, Short-Round,” he says hoarsely, and then the frown returns. He swallows hard, bringing a hand up to his throat. Bucky moves in swiftly, reaching to hold onto Clint’s shoulder. Clint reaches up to wrap his fingers around Bucky’s metal wrist, and Bucky uses his free hand to brush his hair up off his forehead with his palm.

“Clint, I’m here,” Arto says. “Are you okay? What happened? Steve said a building fell down and you were in it, what happened?”

Clint isn’t listening; he’s looking up at Bucky and Nat and Steve, eyes flicking between the three of them. Obviously, Arto grows more agitated as he’s not being taken notice of; still talking at a thousand miles an hour, he reaches up to turn Clint’s face towards him.

Clint’s frown grows more distressed. He moves his hand away from his neck to Arto’s mouth; Arto clutches at his wrist with both hands.

“You’re not listening to me, what happened? Did the building really fall down? Was it supposed to fall down or was it an accident and you were in the wrong place-”

“I can’t,” Clint says, and he looks around to Bucky. “Bucky,  _ I can’t hear. _ ”

Bucky’s stomach drops.

_ Fuck. _

The conversation earlier, the way Clint was behaving, his and Steve’s suspicion that he might have a head injury. Christ, his ears had been bleeding when Bucky’d dragged him out of the rubble, and the explosion had left  _ Bucky’s _ ears ringing and he’d been a room away from the source. Clint had been sitting right on top of it.

Nat steps up behind him, leaning over to look at Clint. “Clint, look at me,” she says clearly, but Clint’s eyes remain fixed on Bucky, steadily growing more terrified.

“I can’t hear,” Clint repeats, panicking. “Buck, I can’t hear what you’re saying, I can’t hear what I’m saying, I can only-”

“ _ Clint! _ ” Arto yells, and Clint flinches.

“I hear you,” he says to Arto. “I heard that but I can’t hear anything else-”

“Art, time to go,” Steve says swiftly, and Arto turns to protest but Steve is bodily scooping him off the bed, tossing him over his shoulder and making his way towards the door. Bucky cringes at the sound of Arto’s shrieks of protest, but Clint is grabbing hold of him, shaking from head to toe.

“Bucky I can’t hear you, what’s happening to me?”

Natasha crowds in too, finally reaching out. Clint grabs hold of her, fingers tight on her hand. “Clint, calm down,” she pleads, but Clint is well and truly on the way to freaking out.

“My hand,” Clint slurs, gasping in pain as he moves. “My hand, and my side – I can’t hear you, Bucky, can you hear me? Bucky, what’s happening, what-”

His voice rises to a shout, and the monitor next to him starts beeping. Bucky glances over and tries to keep calm as he sees Clint’s blood pressure and pulse have skyrocketed.

“Clint, stop, just-”

He doesn’t even know what makes him think of it. He wrenches back, and holds his hands out, sharply bringing down his open right hand onto the palm of his left, one of only four or five signs that he knows.

_ Stop. _

Clint does.

Breathing hard through his mouth and clutching at his stomach, Clint sinks back into the pillows of his bed, his eyes turning to Nat briefly before fixing back on Bucky. Bucky stands still for a moment and then steps forwards, taking Clint’s head in his hands. He taps his mouth with his metal fingers and Clint’s eyes obediently flick down to his mouth.

“Stay calm,” he says clearly, even though he feels anything but. He moves his hand back to cradle Clint’s face. “I can hear you. We will work this out.”

Clint nods, his eyes coming back up to meet Bucky’s. “I don’t want to be deaf again,” he says, his eyes filling with tears. “Buck, I can’t, not again.”

Bucky’s heart just about breaks. He swallows hard as he feels Natasha take hold of his elbow, a grip that is probably supposed to be comforting and supportive. “We will work this- Clint!” He taps his mouth again, waits for Clint to look. “We will work this out, I promise.”

The tears spill over. Clint’s breath catches on a sob, and then he gasps, clutching at his side again.  _ Fuck, he’ll tear his stitches, _ Bucky thinks, and then steels himself and quickly makes the call.

“I’m sorry,” he says, even as he lets go of Clint and reaches for the IV next to him. He fiddles for a moment, turning up the morphine. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Clint chokes out, and beyond the pain and panic, his expression is edged with hurt betrayal. “Bucky, don’t.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says again, and even as Clint slowly lolls backwards, eyelids drooping, Bucky can only blankly think,  _  I already know the sign for that one, too. _

* * *

 

 

“Bucky. Here.”

Bucky looks up to see Natasha holding out a cup of coffee and a Snickers bar. He takes both without a word, shifting in his seat next to Clint’s bed. They really need to invest in comfier furniture up here; with the amount they get hurt someone should have thought to order a couch or something softer than the plastic shit he’s sitting on.

“What do we do?” Natasha asks, sitting down in the chair next to him.

“We?” Bucky repeats warily. 

“Yes. We,” Natasha says. “I meant it. You’re not going to be able to hide him away until he heals this time.”

“I might,” Bucky says, suddenly exhausted. “He might wake up tomorrow and be able to hear again.”

“But if he doesn’t, we need to think of a plan,” Natasha says, running her fingers through her hair. “I’m sorry,” she says somewhat absently, staring at Clint’s face without blinking, eyes huge and grey. “I panicked. I thought you’d - I don’t know. I imagined  _ you  _ panicking and keeping him away from everything. Everyone. I didn’t want him to be alone.”

“He wouldn’t be alone, he’d have me,” Bucky says, and sips his coffee. Strong enough to strip paint, just how he likes it. “Look, I know you’re freaking out. And I know that usually, I somehow end up being the level headed one. But this time I - I think you guys need to let me be the one that freaks out here.”

Natasha blinks slowly, still looking at Clint. “I forget,” she says. “You do somehow end up as the voice of reason.”

“Well, look at the other options,” Bucky says, and her mouth curves slightly.

“You’re even doing it now,” she says. “Being the rational one even as you’re trying to tell me you’re in no place to be the rational one.”

“I’m not rational about Clint,” Bucky says. 

“Love isn’t rational,” Natasha says. “I’m sorry I expected you to be.”

Bucky’ll take it for now. “I’m sorry I let you wind me up.”

“So. Apologies accepted,” Natasha says, and reaches out to take his coffee. She takes a sip and pulls a face, handing it back. “What do we do?”

Bucky rubs at his mouth, thinking for a moment. “Depends if it’s permanent,” 

“What did Burge say?” Natasha asks. “Eat.”

Bucky does as bid, unwrapping the Snickers and taking a bite. “Said that yes, he’s been deafened by the explosion,” he tells her through his mouthful, before swallowing. “One ear almost completely fucked. The other one mostly fucked. She don’t know if it’s permanent, but she said probably.”

“You have a way with words,” Natasha says. “We should tell the team.”

Bucky feels himself go tense. Telling the team means making it real, means facing up to his fears and acknowledging everything that has happened. Just when they all seemed happy and settled - Steve and Tony had gotten  _ married  _ less than a year ago, for chrissakes - the universe decides to fuck them over with something new. 

“We tell the team and then what?” Bucky says. “We have a giant pity party?”

“Bucky,” Natasha admonishes. “They deserve to know.”

Bucky thinks hard. If he doesn’t say something, word will get out anyway. Arto knows there’s something up with Clint and so does Steve. If the pair of Rogers know then Tony will know, which means Bruce will know then Lilya who will tell Jane...and even without considering the game of Chinese whispers that will undoubtedly happen, if Natasha decides to say anything, she might say more than Clint wants to be said. 

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll do it. Call them in.”

“Now?” Natasha asks.

Bucky nods. “They’re all here, right? Jarvis, call a meeting. Avengers and company assemble, or whatever the fuck it is we say.”

He crams the last of the chocolate bar into his mouth and stands up, looking at Clint. He’s still sleeping, heavily sedated and hopefully calm. Bucky doesn’t think he can handle yet another episode of the Clint-Is-Freaking out show. The first time had been bad enough; the second, when the doctors had been present, had somehow been even worse. 

“Do you want Arto to be there?” Natasha asks.

Bucky shrugs. “Steve’s call,” he says. Natasha inclines her head once and then she’s gone. Personally, he doesn’t think Arto should be there, but he knows that sometimes getting Arto away from Steve is like detaching his own arm. Nigh on impossible and pretty painful. 

Giving Nat and Jarvis twenty minutes to assemble the team, he takes his time finishing his coffee. He sits on the edge of the bed, tapping away on his phone with one hand, frowning down at the screen as he thumbs through countless pages worth of results for _‘hearing loss’_ in google. He doesn’t even know where to start.

“Google is fucking useless,” he mutters. “I don’t need ten and a half million results, I just need to know how to help you.”

He sighs, shoving his phone away and drinking the last dredges of his coffee. He’s more than a little unwilling to leave Clint’s side, but he knows if he doesn’t go either Nat or Steve will appear to make him do things like talking to the team and eating and sleeping. Right now, he’d rather just take the easy road and do those things without being forced.

“Back in a bit, asshole,” he says to Clint, and makes himself leave the medbay, even though walking away from Clint makes him want to punch the glass doors on the way out. He’s doing his best to control that panicky anger, half in a world of his own as he treads the familiar path down to the communal area.  As he leaves the solitude of the elevator and steps out into the open space, the assembled crowd goes quiet, and he resists the urge to pull a face, walking to the front of the room and standing in front of the TV. Everyone's faces turn to him, like he’s the most interesting program they've ever seen in their lives. 

“So,” Bucky says awkwardly. He’s not used to being in the centre of attention like this; he never really got used to it even in the three damn years he spent as Captain America, before Steve decided he could handle having his shield back. These days, he’s normally standing or skulking in the background, side-to-side with Clint or just behind Steve, but not this time. This time, Steve is sitting on the couch with Arto curled up small on his knee. Steve’s chin rests atop Arto’s head and Arto seems – well, not happy, but content to sit fiddling with Steve’s wedding ring, zipping it back and forth on its chain. Tony is right next to them, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees, gnawing at his lip and being uncharacteristically quiet.

And then obviously there’s Natasha, Bruce, Lilya, Thor, Jane, Pepper, Sam, Rhodey and Phil all standing and sitting in various configurations around the room. Damn, their team got big. 

“Clint is going to be fine,” he says, and there’s a palpable relief that rolls across the room, like a gently breaking wave. “He’s broken his leg in two places, broken his wrist, had some organs fixed. Uh, he’s had his spleen removed, so he’s going to have to look at some immunotherapy.”

He swallows hard. Watches as Steve presses a kiss to the top of Arto’s head.

“And he’s…his ears. Fuck. He’s deaf.”

“What?” Bruce asks, shocked. Lilya smacks his arm. “No, that’s not a joke – how bad is it?”

“Profound and complete,” Bucky says. “One ear is almost completely gone. He can’t hear me yelling in it. The other ear is…the doc says he can just about hear things over ninety decibels.”

“He heard me yelling,” Arto mumbles, and Steve shushes him.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, with a bit of a helpless gesture towards Arto. “He can hear the kid screaming, just about. But background noise, anything unclear or muted, anything he’s not looking at, he’s not going to get.”

“Is it permanent?” Bruce asks.

Bucky shrugs. “Don’t know,” he says, looking down at the floor. “We’ll have to see.”

“Can’t we just hook him up with some hearing aids?” Sam asks. “Come on, there’s got to be a fix for this.”

“I’m on it,” Tony says, and of course he is. Bucky doesn’t know why he didn’t expect him to be. “Got a delivery coming in this afternoon. Standard tech that I’m going to pull apart and make better.”

“Clint knows sign language already,” Natasha says from the back next to Sam, and surprised faces turn to her. “We should learn some. You know, just in case it is permanent.”

“How does he already know sign language?” Thor frowns.

“Yeah, he’s pretty honest about the fact he never even graduated high-school,” Rhodey says frankly. “I didn’t think learning was his favourite thing.”

Bucky feels his temper flare. “He’s not a fucking idiot.”

“Language,” Arto mutters from Steve’s knee with a scowl, and Bucky scowls right back.

“I didn’t mean-” Rhodey begins.

“He’s smarter than he looks,” Tony says. “Don’t underestimate him.”

“But sign language?” Bruce says a little incredulously. “Why sign language? Spanish, I’d understand.”

“It’s-” Natasha begins, but Bucky cuts her off.

“That’s no-one’s business but Clint’s,” he says curtly, trying not to feel furious as he remembers Clint’s quietly spoken stories about his childhood, secrets that he’d never wanted to admit to. “Nat, stow it.”

Natasha looks at him for a moment and then nods. Bucky realises that the room has gone very quiet again. He swallows hard, tries to think of something to say. Luckily, Tony beats him to it.

“Alright, team meeting over,” he says, standing up and stretching. “Not really in the mood for talking about tech updates and AIM, we’ll reschedule. Someone order some food; I’m starving and you vultures have eaten everything edible in the building. Bruce, I’m requisitioning you, come and learn about hearing aids-”

The rest of the room takes the cue, turning away from Bucky to talk amongst themselves or check cellphones, moving around and away in familiar patterns. Like migrating birds, Bucky thinks absently. Always the same predictable patterns as to who goes to talk to who after a team meeting, as to who avoids conversation until they’ve had chance to think.

“I’m going to see Clint,” Arto says, dropping Steve’s wedding ring so it bounces against his chest.

“Nu-uh,” Steve says, catching him by a knee and an elbow as Arto makes to roll off his knee. “Try again.”

“Get off,” Arto whines. “I want to see Clint.”

Bucky hesitates. Clint is in no fit state for visitors; all he’s done since waking up is sleep, freak out, cry and repeat. He’s not going to want Arto to see him like that, though maybe seeing Arto will cheer him up. However, there is the distinct possibility that seeing Clint as high as a kite and or freaking out will only freak Arto out in turn.

“You have homework,” Steve tells Arto, still holding onto wayward limbs. “For tomorrow, and don’t you tell me you don’t because Logan told me you’ve got homework for Professor Xavier and-”

“I’m not going tomorrow,” Arto says, and his voice is full of alarm. “I can’t go tomorrow.”

Steve looks at Bucky, perplexed. “You know the routine, it’s Monday, that’s a full day-”

“No, no, not while Clint is hurt,” Arto says, trying to struggle free from Steve’s gentle grip. “I can’t go, what if he gets worse and I’m at school-”

_ Oh hell, _ Bucky thinks forlornly. The kid might be a grade A brat, but he’s heartbreaking in the worst of ways.

“Let me go check if he’s up, huh?” he says to Arto, who stops squirming to look at Bucky suspiciously. “If he’s awake and feels okay, I’ll send for you.”

Arto’s face twists. “You’ll lie, you want him to yourself,” he says, and Bucky rears back in shock as Steve pulls Arto upright.

“Apologise,” Steve says to Arto, voice hard. “Bucky has never once stopped you from seeing Clint and you know it.”

“No,” Arto snaps. “He does, he lies and he locks the bedroom door and the main door even when they’re not having sex-”

_ “Arto!” _

Arto stops ranting as Steve shouts angrily over him and he draws back, trying to twist free and looking very much like he knows he’s crossed a line. The rest of the team are looking around, and Tony is there in an instant.  Steve doesn’t acknowledge Tony, even as a calming hand is set on his shoulder. “I know you’re upset but you carry on and you’re going in time out,” Steve tells Arto, who makes an angry noise back at him.

“What’s going on?” Tony asks, looking at Arto and Steve. “Art, what’s with the face?”

“I want to see Clint!” Arto says, throwing a hand in Bucky’s direction like Bucky is somehow stopping that from happening.

“Bucky said you could see him when he’s checked he’s awake,” Steve says firmly and calmly. “If you end up in time-out, that won’t happen.”

“Tony,” Arto pleads, but Tony is shaking his head. “Nuh-uh, that won’t work,” he says calmly. “You heard your dad. And seeing as you got us hitched, we officially have to agree on things like this, so don't look at me like it's my fault.”

Bucky turns away. “I’m going to see if he’s awake,” he says, and doesn’t look back even as Steve and Arto’s argument escalates. He feels oddly unnerved as he gets in the elevator; yeah, Arto has had his issues with him, some of them long lasting and still ongoing, but it’s never been so direct, never been thrown in his face that way. Christ, does Arto really see Bucky as competition?

His mind turns restlessly to his standoff with Nat earlier; another case of fighting-over-Clint that he really didn't see coming. Maybe he _has_ been super selfish when it comes to Clint, and not even noticed. 

_Well, fuck_ , he thinks wearily as the elevator descends to the medical floor. Not to mention the fact that Arto yelling at people for having sex was way funnier when it was directed at Steve and Tony. That had been back when Arto was on his mission to get them married, Bucky recalls. Shit, what would the kid do if Bucky and Clint ever got hitched? He’d probably do his best to kill Bucky in his sleep, considering what Bucky’s just heard.

He arrives in medical just as Doctor Burge is leaving after yet another check up. She tells him that Clint’s stitches are holding well, and that there doesn’t seem to be any sign of infection. She also ruefully tells him that Clint has refused to utter a word, and seems incredibly tense.

_ Well, no shit, _ Bucky wants to tell her, but just smiles charmingly at her and then switches it off as she leaves. Scowling, he shoves through the door and automatically calls Clint’s name, before remembering Clint can’t hear him.  _ Way to go Barnes, _ he berates himself. _ Some fucking Winter Soldier you are, not even remembering basic intel. _

He walks around the bed so Clint can see him, but his eyes are closed. Sighing, Bucky reaches out to touch Clint’s shoulder, jumping back as Clint jerks violently, throwing a hand out in panic.

“Whoa, whoa, just me,” Bucky says, catching the hand between his own. Clint settles, breathing hard, but then his face shutters and he turns away, doing his best to tug his hand free from Bucky’s. Worried about hurting him again, Bucky lets him go and watches as Clint manages to roll himself over onto his side, his back now to Bucky. Shaking his head, Bucky places a hand on Clint’s shoulder to roll him back over, but Clint won’t budge.

“The fuck are you playing at,” he frowns, and in a move too quick for Clint to do shit about, he vaults over the bed in a tidy leap, quickly turning to plant his hand on Clint’s shoulder so he can’t roll back.

“Clint,” he says, and taps at his mouth, but Clint keeps his eyes stubbornly downcast. Bewildered, Bucky ducks so they’re eye-to eye, but Clint averts his eyes away from Bucky’s face, mouth pressed hard.

“Clint,” Bucky repeats, louder, and Clint reaches up clumsily with his cast-covered hand to knock Bucky away, before rolling back over.

Well, fuck.

“Fuck you, then,” Bucky says angrily, and then pointedly gives Clint the finger, reaching over to shove the gesture right in his face. Clint shoves his hand away and Bucky pulls back, storming away and slamming the door hard enough to make the glass rattle.  He’s halfway to the elevator when he rounds the corner and comes head to head with Tony and a very tearful looking Arto.

“Damn, he’s asleep, isn’t he?” Tony asks, looking resigned. Arto abruptly turns away from Bucky, hiding his face in Tony’s ribs.

“Nope,” Bucky says, and walks on.

“Then why are you walking that way?” Tony calls after him, perplexed.

_ Because he’s being a dick, _ Bucky wants to snap, but mindful of Arto, he doesn’t.

“He’s in a mood. Tired,” Bucky lies. “Don’t be surprised if he doesn’t want to talk.”

“Hang on,” Tony calls, but Bucky is already in the elevator, thumbing the button and leaning back against the hand-rail, folding his arms moodily across his chest. The doors close and he has a moment before he lets himself go.

“Fucking asshole,” he snaps, kicking the elevator wall in frustration. It leaves a dent in the metal and Bucky groans. He doesn’t get paid enough to pay to fix everything he breaks, and that’s not one he can hide.

_ And people wonder why I like guns better than humans _ , he grouches mentally, heading down to the training floor. Guns never tell you they love you and get into a pretty serious relationship with you and scare you to death by nearly dying and then refuse to talk to you. They just do as they’re fucking meant to, provided they get a bit of maintenance and care.  He bypasses the gym and goes into the range, unlocking the door with its card verification and Arto-proof thumbprint sensors. Jarvis welcomes him and locks the door behind him, automatically opening his weapons cache. He trails his fingers over his rifle, and then looks up and picks up his Glock.

“You’ll never turn your back on me, right?” he murmurs, picking it up and digging through the boxes for ammo. He’s more hurt than he wants to acknowledge; Clint knows how hard it is for him to connect with anyone, so for Clint to-

But Clint is hurting too, his brain reminds him, and he mentally kicks himself.

“Stop being butthurt and shoot some things,” he mutters to himself. “Jarvis, get me some targets.”

“Any preferences?”

Bucky shrugs, loading the Glock. “Heart shapes,” he finally decides with a twisted not-quite smile, and steps up to the mark. Fuck it. He’s knows Clint is in a bad place and he’s never going to begrudge him that…but he guesses it won’t matter so much if he acts a  _ little _ butthurt, if only in private.

 

* * *

 

It’s around three hundred rounds later that Bucky's simulation suddenly stops, holograms blinking out and the lights turning back on. Bewildered, he lowers his guns and turns to see a familiar figure standing on the other side of the bullet-proof glass. His jaw drops as the figure lifts a cast-covered hand to weakly wave at him, clutching hold of an IV stand with the other.

“Clint!”

The guns are away in record time, and he’s yanking his ear-protectors off and sprinting across the room, heaving the glass door open and stepping up to Clint, grabbing hold of him as he sways.

“I’m sorry,” Clint says far too loudly, and then pitches forwards right into Bucky’s arms. Bucky manages to catch him and they sink to the floor; Clint is tangled up in his IV line and the whole stand tips over with a crash.

“Shit!” Bucky tries to extricate Clint from his line, untangling him and then picking the stand up one-handed, setting it upright again. Nothing is leaking and there’s no blood, so he turns his attention to Clint who is –

Clint is crying.

Quietly and without moving, he’s curled around into Bucky and he’s crying. Bucky immediately feels like the world’s biggest asshole for his heart-shooting bitch-fit earlier. “Oh, darling,” Bucky says helplessly, and then wants to cry himself because the usual  _ ‘I am not your darling!’  _ isn’t there, a silent hole in his world.

“I’m sorry,” Clint says again, and Bucky shifts around so he can gently tip Clint’s face up.

“It’s okay,” he says clearly, relieved that Clint’s eyes are on his mouth without prompting. He hesitates, and then leans in to gently kiss him. Thankfully, Clint kisses him back, a long press of their mouths together before Clint pulls back, shuddering. 

“It’s worse than before,” Clint says, his voice still louder than it should be. “It’s worse, and I can’t even-”

He trails off in a fresh wave of tears. Blinking hard, Bucky simply pulls him right up into his lap and holds him close. “Easy,” he says, pressing his mouth to the top of Clint’s head. “I got you, darling, I’m not going anywhere, not even when you turn your back on me.”

Clint just lets out a choked sound. “I can feel you talking, I know you’re talking but-”

He lifts his head, looking helpless. Bucky smiles crookedly at him. “I was talking about how much of a fucking idiot you are, because you had your spleen removed three days ago and you’re supposed to be in bed.”

Clint’s mouth wavers. “I’m an idiot because I had my spleen taken out and I should be in bed?”

Bucky nods. “A fucking idiot,” he says, and then tucks Clint’s head back under his chin, wanting to hold him tighter than Clint’s injuries will allow. “I’m so sorry, Clint. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

And with the words comes a rush of guilt, something that has been sitting uneasily in the pit of his stomach ever since he dragged Clint out of the rubble. He never should have left Clint, he shouldn’t have-

_ No, _ he tells himself fiercely.  _ It happened, and you can’t do shit about it. No guilt. _

He holds Clint a fraction closer, wipes his tears away with his metal thumb.  _ No guilt, _ he thinks, breathing in and out through his mouth.  _ How about sorrow, instead?  _ His body seems to answer for him; he buries his face in Clint’s hair and holds him tight as he lets himself cry, too.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Clint wakes yet again to a world of silence.

It’s suffocating, even more so than it had been to begin with; a huge absent pressure that makes the entire world seem utterly distanced from him. He keeps swallowing convulsively, like he can somehow make his ears pop and bring back the sound. He aches, too. Oh man, apart from the fact he’s fucking deaf, he feels like he’s had a run in with Hulk. He grimaces as he shifts his splinted leg, his shin itching like mad under the cast. His whole chest feels like one big bruise, and he doesn’t need to look under the gown to know that it looks a mess. At least he’s in his own bed, he thinks somewhat despondently. Being in his own bed under his own blankets is way better than being in the medbay. Here he’s got all of his things, including Bucky curled up in front of him, hand slipped under his cheek and messy brown hair tumbling over his forehead. He’s going to have lines from the plates in his fingers printed all over his face from sleeping like that, though Clint doesn’t feel remotely like joking around about it right now. In all honesty, he doesn’t think he’s going to feel like joking ever again.

Even as Clint squirms to try and ease the ache in his leg, Bucky sleeps on; his mouth is lax and slightly open, his eyes flickering under their lids. He looks utterly relaxed when he’s asleep like this; it’s the only time he ever does, really. He’s always so alert, even when he’s still there’s something in his expression which just screams energy. Like a panther waiting to pounce, a lazy big cat with claws at the ready.

 _Shit, I’m thinking in similes, I must be on the good drugs,_ Clint thinks groggily. He swallows painfully, throat feeling like sandpaper, and looks over to see a glass of water of the nightstand. Gritting his teeth, he tries to reach for it but he finds that he’s about eight inches short, and trying to lean further is causing horrible stabby pain in his side. He curses under his breath, and then curses again as Bucky twitches in his sleep, the slightest frown marring his brow. Dammit, it’s like he’s catching the perpetual frown that both Steve and Arto wear in sleep.

He feels his chest go tight, eyes feeling too warm all over again. Shit, he’s had enough of crying; he spent the whole of yesterday crying and he’s exhausted from it.

What is going to happen to him?

The question keeps knocking restlessly around in his brain, flitting back again even after repeated refused acknowledgement. His leg will heal; he’s broken that before. His wrist will too, though he might need to get Tony to get his old brace out again to make sure it doesn’t strain. His massive internal injuries will heal too – he guesses losing a spleen is a good way to shed some weight.

But his _ears._

How is he supposed to be an Avenger if he’s deaf? How is he supposed to be _him_ if he’s deaf?

Without really thinking about why he needs to do it, Clint reaches out with clumsy fingers to touch the side of Bucky’s face; Bucky grunts sleepily and reaches out to grab hold of the wandering fingers, relaxing his grip when he opens sleep-fuzzed eyes to see Clint. He doesn’t say anything, just uses his other hand to rub the sleep from his eyes. He looks deliberately calm, and Clint recognises it as the look he gets when he’s decompressing after a tough mission.

“Hi,” Clint says, and the corner of Bucky’s mouth turns up slightly. He still doesn’t speak, and Clint aches to hear the usual interchangeable endearments and insults, the usual back and forth banter. He’d even take a telling off for getting hurt, _anything._

But no, Bucky just lies there without saying anything, not even trying to get Clint to lip-read him. It breaks Clint’s heart a little, but he’s only barely aware of it. He lets his eyes slide away from Bucky’s, unable to find the point in looking at him any longer.

He feels Bucky shifting, but doesn’t bother looking up until metal fingers deliberately tap his shoulder.  Bucky is looking at him expectantly and holding out the glass of water. All at once Clint is reminded about just how thirsty he is; he tries to sit up in order to take it. Humiliatingly, he can’t. He turns his eyes away again as Bucky sets down the glass, doesn't even look at him as Bucky hauls him up into a sitting position, shoving all the pillows behind his back. He takes the water without a word, sipping at it and feeling his stomach ache as he does. When was the last time he ate? He can’t remember.

A sharp swat to his unbroken leg makes him look up; Bucky is holding out his phone, and on the screen are written the words _‘I told the team.’_

For a moment, Clint thinks he’s going to get angry about it, but the spark of annoyance is smothered by a wave of lassitude, a bone-deep weariness that he’s never felt before.

He shrugs.

Bucky’s brow knits in a concerned frown, and he types some more. _‘You’re not mad?’_

Clint shrugs again.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Bucky’s concerned frown transform into his irritated one, but Clint can't find it in himself to care. He passes the glass of water back and then shuffles back down so he’s slumped in the bed, pulling one of the carefully wedged pillows out of his way and tossing it aside. Bucky seems to sit very still for a while, and then he leans over to kiss Clint’s temple, his stubble scratching against his skin, before climbing up and out of the bed.

Clint doesn’t follow him. Doesn’t even watch him leave the room. Just closes his eyes and slips back into a fitful dose, his not-quite-sleep permeated with fractured dreams of explosions, of blood, of Arto’s scared face. He tosses and turns as best he can with his injuries, skin feeling prickly and too tight.

Hours later, it's the sensation of fingers on his cheek which wakes him, making him jump a mile; he lashes out only to have his wrist caught firmly in metal fingers. He gasps and Bucky drops his arm immediately, his expression clouding over. It takes Clint a moment to get his bearings, but then he recalls the hand shaped bruising on his wrist before it’d been put in a cast, the broken bones in his wrist that had been caused by Bucky’s death grip on him as he’d been wheeled in on a stretcher.

“Buck,” he says, the word unheard by his own ears. He stops, helpless, shaking his head. He’d roll over and go back to sleep but even as he thinks about it, he realises that he and Bucky aren’t alone. Tony is standing in the doorway, fingers tapping at his phone screen. He looks tired, Clint thinks, wearing all the signs of either ‘fight with Steve’, ‘all-nighter with Arto,’ or ‘workshop binge.’

Whatever. Tony’s neither been blown up nor deafened, so whatever it is keeping him up doesn’t match what Clint’s got going on right now. He wants to turn his face away, to close his eyes and go back to sleep, to be left alone, but Tony is walking over and talking rapidly, a stream of words that Clint doesn’t even try to follow.  Instead he just lies back and watches Bucky, idly wishing that Bucky would just get back in the damn bed so Clint could curl up into him. He sleeps better with Bucky there these days, no exceptions.

Tony says something that makes Bucky’s brows shoot up in surprise. He shakes his head and then shrugs, looking annoyed. His mouth moves and Clint catches what he thinks is, " _How the fuck am i supposed to know?"_ He’s not sure though; it’s been years since he’s had to rely on lip-reading. Bucky’s expression goes pained, and then he just gestures at Clint. Reflexively, Clint looks to Tony, expecting him to say something or write something on his phone, but then Tony simply holds his hand out. Clint extends his own, and then his whole brain stops working as Tony drops two hearing aids into his open palm.

He blinks and suddenly he’s eight years old all over again, watching a pair of hearing aids being shoved away in the top of the kitchen cupboard. Reading Barney’s scribbled note, telling him he wasn’t allowed to wear them, that Dad would be furious if anyone ever saw Clint with them, besides, they couldn’t go out and let the boys from the farm see Clint with them, because they’d _know_ and they’d torment him endlessly.

“No,” he says without thinking, pressing them back into Tony’s hand. He raises his voice, not caring how loud it comes out. “No.”

Tony looks taken aback, mouth already moving too fast as he tries to argue. “I said no, alright!” Clint shouts, and Tony abruptly stops. Bucky is shaking his head, looking at Tony unhappily but he’s not weighing in to either side of the debate, which Clint is distantly grateful for.  It’s not Bucky’s usual style, and Clint’s not entirely convinced that he won’t take to knocking heads if the argument escalates.

Whatever Tony is saying is now being directed at Bucky, who holds his hands up like he’s surrendering. Tony now just looks pissed off, but he’s nodding and dropping the hearing aids onto the bed by Clint’s knee, before turning away and leaving the room.

Clint closes his eyes, breathes deep in and out and tries to find his balance again.

He feels a tap against his arm and cracks an eye open to see Bucky holding up his phone, the words _‘are you okay?’_  typed out on the screen.

For a moment, Clint debates telling him. Debates spilling his guts with all the details, with every memory that’s been dragged forth from the little box in his brain labelled ‘repression.’

“Fine,” he mutters. Bucky knows the most of it, anyway. “I’m not wearing them.”

Bucky stares at him, face carefully neutral. Then he takes Clint’s head in his hands and holds him in place so Clint has no choice but to look at him as he says, "why not?"

He yanks back, gritting his teeth against the pain. Shoves Bucky's hands away from him and lies down, turning his head to the side and away from Bucky. Bucky knows why. He’s not going through it all again, there’s no damn point.  

A moment later, Bucky’s phone appears in front of his nose. He blinks hard and scans the words, stomach dropping unpleasantly.

_Arto wants to see you._

He shakes his head, pushes the phone away like he did Bucky’s hands. Bucky takes it away without objection or argument, moving away and moving to slump down in the armchair by the window, eyes fixed on the screen of his phone. Clint watches him over his shoulder for a few seconds, then he rolls back, closes his eyes and lets himself drift off to sleep.

* * *

 

Bucky stands in the centre of the mats, the air of the gym cool on his bare chest. He lets his whole body relax, swaying back and forth on his feet as he listens to the swell of the music that he’s got blaring through the otherwise empty room. Mozart today, everything in minor key. Violins and choirs filling every inch of available space at a volume that would make any regular person’s ears bleed. Which, considering recent events, is not the most appropriate metaphor his brain could have come up with, but fuck it.   

He tightens his fingers around the knife in his hand. Counts silently to ten and then moves, his whole body twisting around as turns on the spot and brings the knife up, slicing an imaginary opponent from bellybutton to chin. The momentum carries him around and he deftly flips the knife to his other hand, snatching it from the air and taking out another invisible enemy. Technically, he’s supposed to be in the range if he’s got a weapon in hand but he likes it better in the gym. It feels more like home in here; the reinforced glass and bars of the range smacks a little too much of Winter Soldier themed lockdowns.  

Besides, Arto isn’t around right now, so if Steve bitches about it, Bucky already has some replies of the four letter variety ready to go.

The blade glints in the lights as he twists and flips around again, going through a routine of motion that’s half training, half dance. He gets lost in it far too easily, the music and the knife in his hand oddly comforting as he moves for long endless minutes.

That is, until the music abruptly cuts out, and someone walks in.

“You know you’re not meant to have that in here.”

Sam’s tone is neutral, almost teasing, but Bucky isn’t in the mood for it. He glares at Sam, wiping his wrist over his brow.

“Kid’s not here. And it ain’t exactly like I’m playing with a semi-automatic.”

“I won’t tell Steve,” Sam says, and that just irritates Bucky more.

“Well, good for you,” he says. “Am I supposed to be grateful?”

Sam holds up his hands as if surrendering, even as he walks closer. “Man, you’re tightly wound. You need a beer.”

“What? No.”

“Yeah, a beer,” Sam says decisively. “Come on.”

Completely undeterred by the fact Bucky is in a bad mood and has a knife in hand, Sam takes Bucky by the elbow and steers him off of the mats and towards the door he only just came in. Sam Wilson is a certified maniac, Bucky is sure of it. If befriending Steve Rogers out of nowhere didn’t prove it, the way he deals with Bucky definitely does. Nick Fury is more wary of Bucky than Sam is, though in Fury’s defence, Sam wasn't around for the whole Winter Soldier thing.

He could dig his heels in and refuse to move. He could walk away. He could mildly stab Sam and make him let go. He does none of these things, feeling bone-deep exhausted and somewhat lost, he lets Sam steer him in the direction of the communal area. When he arrives, he vehemently wishes that he had gone ahead with refusing or stabbing, because almost _everyone_ is there and they might be heroes but they’re all dumbasses, going quiet for an obvious fraction of a second as Bucky enters, before resuming normal volume.

“Evening, Terminator,” Tony calls over, licking his thumb and gesturing to the huge pot in the centre of the counter. “Come get some. Wilson makes a mean pot of chilli.”

Christ. Now he can't walk off without seeming like an asshole. “I could eat,” Bucky shrugs, beelining towards Rhodey who is holding out a beer with the cap already off. He turns to stab his knife into the countertop, leaving it there so he can take the beer with a nod of thanks.

“You can always eat,” Natasha says absently as she picks at her rice.

“Super-soldier,” Bucky shrugs, looks around for a spare plate. “I should take some for Clint.”

“I already took him some,” Natasha says. "Sorry to step on your toes, but I knew you were in the gym and thought you wouldn't mind."

Appeased, Bucky stops his search and instead drains half his beer in several easy swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Did he eat it?”

Natasha inclines her chin in a single affirmative dip. “Most of it.”

“Well I managed to shove him into the shower earlier,” Bucky says, sadly thinking of the effort it took him to get Clint washed, how little Clint had seemed to care. He necks the rest of his beer and immediately accepts a second that Rhodey has ready to go. “Where’s Steve?”

“Arto fishing,” Tony says. “Possibly resorting to blackmail to get him out of the tub. Where’s Clint now?”

“Went back to sleep,” Bucky says, and scowls at the raised eyebrows and significant looks that are shared around the table. “Leave the man alone, he got blown up like four days ago. He’ll come round.”

“He seems depressed,” Thor says unapologetically.

“Like I said, he got blown up four days ago,” Bucky replies. “He’s having to deal with a lot.”

“Tony says he’s refusing to wear the hearing aids,” Sam says, leaning over Tony’s shoulder to grab himself a plate.

“Makes no sense, that would solve his problem,” Rhodey frowns.

“That would solve the problem that he can't hear,” Bucky says. “It would not solve the problem of the psychological trauma.” _And the deeply repressed childhood memories,_ he silently adds, though it’s not his place to say so he keeps his mouth shut.

Sam nods understandingly, though does fix Bucky with an appraising look. “You are actually being very mellow about this.”

Bucky’s eyes flick to Natasha, whose mouth quirks in a tired but knowing smile. “Bucky is the voice of reason."

“Nope, not having it,” Tony says. “Someone needs to kick him into gear, and it looks like you’re the man, Buckaroo.”

“Just because you and Steve fight out every minor disagreement in spectacular drama-queen style, doesn’t mean everyone does,” Bucky retorts and there’s a smattering of hastily bitten-back laughter around the table.

“Man has a point,” Sam says. “Maybe it’s better to just leave Clint for a while. Don't try and force it. He'll come round on his own accord when he's ready.”

Tony shrugs, apparently conceding the point. “Barnes, you can call it. You know him best. Maybe you’re right. I just know that leaving Steve when he’s in a mood is a sure-fire recipe for brooding and unnecessary escalation.”

Bucky fights the urge to roll his eyes. “He’s not Steve.”

“Who’s not Steve?” A voice calls, and Bucky turns to see the man himself walking in, a damp-haired and pyjama-clad Arto sitting on his shoulders. Steve isn’t holding onto him at all, hands free as he wanders into the kitchen and helps himself to a beer. It’s a well worn-routine; Arto sways contentedly on his perch, one hand resting on Steve’s head for balance.

“Clint isn’t, and why is that thing not in bed,” Tony says, frowning suspiciously at Arto who is humming to himself and kicking his heels against Steve’s abs.

“I wanted to see you,” Arto says, and reaches down towards him. “Steve, put me down.”

“Well of course, everyone wants to see me, I can’t say I blame you,” Tony says, standing up and holding his hands out. Steve bends his knees without even looking Tony’s way, letting Tony lift Arto off his shoulders and pull him onto his lap as he sits back down. “Ooft, you got heavy, kid.”

“Did not,” Arto says tiredly, pushing at Tony’s face and grumbling as Tony exaggeratedly rocks him like a baby, pressing noisy kisses to his face. Bucky sees the edge of a smile just before Arto twists around, burying his face in Tony’s shirt. Tony watches him fondly then seems to notice he in turn is being watched. He looks up at Bucky with a quirked smile and a question in his eyes, but Bucky just looks away.

“I’ll take him up in a minute,” Steve says, and then frowns, distractedly. “Why is there a knife in the counter?”

“Oh, that. That’s just the bread-cutting knife, left it there for safe-keeping,” Sam says, and tries to pull it out. He gives up and then grimaces at Bucky. “Damn. Well, I tried.”

“Buck,” Steve groans, exasperated.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, and goes over to pull the knife out of the counter, looking around for a Arto-safe spot to stash it. He’s about to toss it on top of the refrigerator when Thor takes it from him, sets it down on the counter and then simply places Mjolnir down over the blade. Well, whatever works. Next to Thor, Jane opens her mouth like she’s about to object, and then just shakes her head and carries on eating.

“Clint wearing his hearing aids yet?” Steve asks, taking Tony’s nearly empty plate and doling himself out a portion of chilli, allowing Jane to top it with several pieces of cornbread.

“No,” Bucky says. “Give him time.”

“I tried to tell him,” Natasha says. “But he’s not listening to me. Maybe you should have a word, Steve.”

“Not a chance,” Steve says with a sigh. “If he’s not listening to Bucky, he won’t listen to me.”

“Bucky hasn’t tried,” Natasha says, and Steve looks up sharply. Bucky gives Natasha an unimpressed look, feeling put-out at both her tone and the implication that he’s somehow done wrong by not making Clint wear the damn hearing aids.

“Bucky’s shit,” a small voice mutters, and Bucky almost drops his beer. Tony rears back, mouth falling open, and Steve twists around so quickly that Bucky’ll be surprised if he’s not pulled something. Arto doesn't move, just sits very still and glowers at Tony's chest like the arc-reactor is to blame for all the evils of the world. 

“Whoa, not okay, Smart-Art,” Tony says, sounding shocked. “I know you miss him-”

“I haven’t seen him in ages,” Arto says, and turns mutinously upset eyes on Bucky. “ _His_ fault.”

“Don’t make me put you in time-out,” Steve adds, voice pitched at a warning. Rhodey and Sam exchange a look, and Jane reaches over to gently pat Bucky’s elbow, looking troubled.

“Whatever,” Bucky shrugs, and he doesn’t care, he _doesn’t_. Kid needs someone to be the bad guy every now and again, Bucky can do that. He’d rather that then Arto take it out on Steve the way he used to when he was small.

“No, he can’t just take it out on you-” Steve begins, but Arto is already there.

“I can, he won’t let me see Clint!”

Steve rubs at his forehead. “That’s not,” he begins but breaks off, troubled. Bucky gets it. What are they supposed to tell Arto, that it’s Clint himself that’s said no? Way to break the kid’s heart.

“Clint is sick, it’s nothing to do with Bucky,” Tony tries.

“No it’s not,” Arto yells back, and is suddenly pointing at _Natasha_ of all people, nearly taking Tony’s eye out as he brandishes his hand across the table. “She said Bucky’s being unreasonable and will lock Clint up!”

All heads turn to Natasha. She doesn’t move, but beneath the calm demeanour, Bucky thinks she does actually look a little guilty.  “I didn’t mean it like that, Solnishka. I meant that Bucky will keep Clint safe while he’s hurt,” she begins, but Arto isn’t having any of it.

“You said!” he yells at her. “You said Bucky’ll lock him up and I’ll never get to see him-”

“Alright, time to go,” Tony says, and gets to his feet, setting Arto on the floor and quickly reaching for his hand. Arto screams once, a frustrated raw sound, stamps his feet several times and then he predictably bursts into tears just like he’s six all over again. Steve is there in an instant, one hand on Tony’s back as he guides them towards the stairs. Arto just carries on crying, and the sound is like a dull blow to Bucky’s chest, hurting in a way he never expected it to.

“And you say he used to be worse than this?” Sam breaks the tense silence with a low whistle. “Man, that’s rough.”

“Much worse,” Thor says. “He is much more in control of himself than he used to be.”

Sam leans back. “I’m sorry, were you here for that just now? And I’m sure you were also around for the ‘my dads won’t get married’ meltdown.”

“Give him a break,” Bucky says loudly, wondering why the hell he’s the one having to say it. “Nat, I’m holding you accountable for that one.”

“I didn’t say it in front of him.”

“He’s like the world’s tiniest spy!” Bucky yells. “He hears everything he’s not supposed to, how have you not learned that yet?!”

Natasha doesn’t answer, which is telling enough. Bucky feels a stab of irritation; he’s really in the mood for yelling this out right now. If Clint being deafened and falling apart wasn’t bad enough, having a mini-super soldier out for his blood is definitely nothing to cheer about.

“You know what, I’m out,” Bucky says, picking up his plate and gesturing for Thor to move Mjolnir so he can retrieve his knife. Thor sighs but does as bid, and Bucky snatches it up, walking away without looking back. Pointedly ignoring the ‘no hot food in training areas’ rule, he takes his meal up to the gym.

“Music, Jarvis,” he says, shoving his plate onto the canvas of the boxing ring. The music immediately starts up again where it had been cut off by Sam earlier. Bucky climbs in after his dinner but doesn’t touch it; he simply lies on his back next to it, with his arms and legs spread out, letting the music wash over him.

Why can’t everyone just calm the fuck down, he thinks distantly. It’s not lost on him that this would have been a thousand times easier to deal with before Arto arrived. Yes, Steve and Tony have had their world tipped upside-down, that’s obvious to anyone who either knows them, or has access any access to the news or Avengers social media accounts.  But it’s at moments like this where Bucky really feels the impact having Arto has had on the team as a whole. It’s like ripples in a pond - no, more like a web. Like that damn family tree that’s still on the fridge - everyone connected together with Arto in the middle.

Long contemplative minutes later, and once again his music cuts out without warning. Groaning inwardly, he turns his head to the side and sighs as he sees Steve walking towards him, looking royally pissed off.

“What is with you and the Mozart?” Steve asks, vaulting into the ring and landing with a bang on the canvas. He stands next to Bucky’s hip, nudging him with his foot.

“Relaxing,” Bucky answers, shoving Steve’s foot away.

“I’ll end up with two deaf Avengers at this rate,” Steve complains, sitting down and reaching for Bucky’s mostly cold dinner. It doesn’t stop him starting to eat it, though.

“Did Arto calm down?” Bucky asks, propping himself up on his elbows.

Steve’s mouth twists unhappily, not answering the question. “He doesn’t hate you, you know.”

Bucky snorts. “Sure as hell feels like it.”

“He doesn’t,” Steve repeats. “He...when he has a bad time, when something happens that makes him feel like he’s going to lose someone...he finds someone to blame. When he thought Tony was going to leave, it was Tony. When he first got here and didn’t know what was going on, he took it out on me and you. Now Clint’s hurt…”

“He’s blaming me, yeah I know,” Bucky says morosely. “And you know what, I never cared. He wanted to paint me as the bad guy, I didn’t care. If that stopped him hating on you or Tony, then that was fine. I just look out for him and make sure he stays safe, and my conscience is clean.”

Steve has gone quiet, all the anger knocked out of him. He’s even stopped eating, instead just watching Bucky with sorrowful eyes.

“This time…” Bucky says, and presses his lips together hard, not wanting to say it.

“Buck?”

“He needs to back off,” Bucky says, not quite ready to admit to Steve or himself that he’s hurt by Arto’s current vendetta against him. “I get that Clint means the world to him, but this shit is not my fault.”

“He’s only eleven, Buck,” Steve says. “Can’t expect him to be the bigger man, here.”

Bucky doesn’t really have an answer to that. He sits up properly, runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I’m - I’m not-” he tries, then takes a deep breath. Yeah, he understands what Steve is trying to say, but he’s about at the end of his capacity to be rational.

“I keep telling him you’re not the bad guy,” Steve says. “I hate that he keeps deciding not to like you. I might ask Clint to talk to him-”

Bucky shakes his head. “Can’t put that on Clint right now,” he says. “He is not in a place to deal with our shit, too.”

“Never seen him like this,” Steve says. “Never seen him not bounce back.”

“Have you ever seen him get hit so hard?” Bucky asks, and Steve shakes his head.

“I feel awful,” Steve mutters. “I sent you two to Italy because I thought it would just be-”

“No, no,” Bucky protests, throwing up his metal hand in a _stop_ gesture. “You do not get to feel guilty about this, not at me. Christ, can I just have ten fucking minutes to be the one who has a meltdown, _please._ ”

Steve reaches out, pushes Bucky’s hand down. “I’m sorry,” he says, and then pauses. The silence stretches between them, brittle and unsatisfied. Finally, Steve is the one to break the stalemate, sounding both apologetic and understanding.

“You want to spar? Bare knuckles? Super-soldier rules?”

Bucky mentally weighs up the offer and then nods. Scrapping with Steve for an hour will definitely be a way to vent some frustration. “Yeah, I do,” he says, and then looks at Steve hopefully. “Dirty rules?”

Steve narrows his eyes, and for a moment he thinks Steve is going to object, but then he just shrugs. “No hitting me in the face, and then you’ve got a deal.”

“I can still pull your hair, right?” Bucky says, climbing to his feet.

“Whatever makes you feel better, you Neanderthal,” Steve says, holding out a hand in an indication for Bucky to pull him up. “Just don’t leave any marks that’ll upset Arto.”

“You’re on,” Bucky says, and hauls Steve to his feet. “You try and talk to me about being the bigger man again, and I’m going to hit you harder.”

“Sure,” Steve says with an unconcerned shrug and a tired smile. “Give me your best shot.”

 

* * *

 

Clint lies very still, staring at the wall through half-lidded eyes. He’s been made to shower and eat today, and now all he wants to do is sleep. The problem is that he’s been sleeping so much since he got back that he can’t always manage it. Sleep is the easy option; he doesn’t even have to think if he’s asleep. Luckily, he doesn’t have nightmares; he’s not like Bucky in that. His leg is throbbing, but moving it seems like a herculean amount of effort, energy that he doesn’t have. It’s probably never going to be the same again anyway, so he’s not all that bothered about looking after it in its injured state. His wrist doesn’t hurt as badly, but he’s deliberately not thinking about what might happen if that doesn’t heal.

A tug to the blankets behind him makes him blink out of his reverie. He reaches up with his good hand to rub at his eyes and then rolls over to face Bucky, knowing that if he doesn’t make some sort of effort-

Oh.

It’s not Bucky.

Arto stands there right next to the bed, arms wrapped tightly around Bucky Bear and bottom lip wobbling. Clint feels his own throat go tight; causing Arto pain is like being stabbed in the heart.

“What’re you doing here?” he asks, his voice nothing but a sensation, a deep buzz in his chest.

Arto shuffles from foot to foot. “Missed you,” he says. Well, that’s what Clint thinks he says, anyway.

“I’m hurt, Art. Just healing up,” he says, but Arto shakes his head and mutters something too quick and indistinct for Clint to catch. Clint looks at him helplessly for a moment but then Arto is moving, clambering onto the bed and scrambling across the space usually occupied by Bucky. Clint moves instinctively, rolling onto his back and holding an arm out so Arto can nestle into his side, his head resting on his shoulder like he normally does.

“I’m okay,” he tells Arto, but the words taste bitter and flat.  He wonders if it sounds like he’s lying, too.

Arto doesn’t move, just lies there with his face turned towards Clint, slowly blinking. Clint swallows hard, looking up at the ceiling. He feels tears well up, sliding out of the corners of his eyes and into his hairline. He wants to reach up to wipe them away but he can’t; they just keep coming, every time he blinks a new scalding track cuts down his face to his temple.

Arto shifts next to him and Clint feels him talking, trying to say something. All he can do is continue to stare at the ceiling. _I can’t do this,_ he thinks. _I’m not his big brother anymore. I’m not an Avenger anymore. I’m not Hawkeye anymore._ Breath catching in his throat, he struggles to sit up, pulling his arm free from under Arto’s head. Distressed, Arto follows him. He reaches out, trying to put his hands on Clint’s cheeks and turn his face like he does to Steve, but Clint refuses to look at him, about to open his mouth and ask Jarvis to fetch Steve to get Arto out of there-

WIthout warning, Arto whips around, letting go of Clint. Clint belatedly looks up to see Bucky in the doorway, looking agonised. He says something and Arto responds by scrambling back towards Clint, his back pressed to Clint’s side.

Running his hand through his hair, Bucky blows out a breath and looks directly at Clint, mouthing, _“are you okay?”_

Clint looks away. “Can you-” he says, probably too loudly. “I need a minute.”

Bucky understands, of course he does. He speaks again, this time to Arto, his expression calm and patient. Arto replies with a furious yell that Clint barely catches the edge of, wrapping his arms around Clint’s bicep and clinging on.

“Arto, I need a minute,” Clint says, but Arto isn’t having any of it. He screams at Bucky again, and twists around to try and climb over Clint, obviously wanting to physically put Clint between himself and Bucky. His knee catches Clint hard in the ribs and he gasps in pain, and in an instant Bucky is there, bodily picking Arto up so Clint’s injuries aren’t in the firing line-

It happens so quickly that Clint doesn’t even have time to react. Arto flings his arm around and punches Bucky hard in the mouth. Bucky jerks back in shock but somehow doesn’t drop Arto, and then Arto has a fistful of Bucky’s hair in his hand and is hitting him again, even as Bucky grabs hold of his wrist and tries to pull Arto’s hand out of his hair without hurting him.

“Arto!” Clint yells, trying to stand up, even as Bucky manages to corral Arto’s hands into the grip of his metal one. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but then simply gasps in surprise as Arto promptly leans in and bites his shoulder, hard.

“Arto, no!”

It’s doesn't make any difference. Twisting away, Bucky swiftly pushes Arto's head back out of biting range and then bends down, dropping him to the floor in an ungainly scrabble of limbs. Getting back up, Arto goes to fly at Bucky again when miraculously Steve appears in the doorway. He slows down for all of half a second, watching in abject horror as Bucky backs up against the wall, Arto following him and grabbing hold of his shirt in one hand, kicking viciously at him. Steve is moving in an instant, striding over and hauling Arto away, dropping to the floor and pinning Arto against his side, securing small hands in his own. He’s fucking _furious_ , Clint hasn’t seen him this angry in years, and he can actually hear Arto screaming and Steve’s responding shout, the force of which shuts Arto up in an instant.

Arto is sobbing, and Bucky is turning on his heel and walking into the bathroom without looking back, slamming the door. Clint can’t do anything, just has to sit there in his own silent world while chaos reigns around him; he thinks about the hearing aids but his whole stomach twists up in fright, recalling fights at home and everything he did making it worse even when he was trying to help.

Steve takes a visibly shaky breath and lets go of Arto's hands. Arto seems to have lost all inclination to fight and simply crawls over, clinging to Steve's front like a koala. Clint only realises that Steve is trying to talk to him when Steve stands up and walks over, Arto still hanging onto him, reaching out and pushing Clint’s chin up.

“What happened?” he asks.

Clint shakes his head, but Steve doesn’t seem to be in the mood for understanding. Hand shaking, he pulls his phone from his pocket and types something out before shoving the phone under Clint’s nose.

_'You need to tell me what happened.'_

“Arto knocked my stitches,” Clint says. “He wouldn’t let go, so Bucky picked him up to move him and...”

He trails off, not wanting to say it. Steve stands up abruptly and walks out of the room without looking back, taking Arto with him. Clint just sits there, looking at the open door and feeling utterly helpless. He wants to get up and go check on Bucky, but he only makes it as far as standing up before he gives up, sinking back down onto the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. What can he possibly hope to achieve? He just wants to sleep, wants it all to _stop._

It doesn’t.

Minutes later and Steve is striding back into the room sans Arto, walking past Clint to bang on the bathroom door. It opens and Steve edges in, half-in and half-out, presumably talking to Bucky. Clint has no idea what’s being said, and a terrible feeling of being left behind washes through him, cold and lonely.

“Steve,” he calls, but either he’s been too quiet or Steve is choosing to ignore him. He clears his throat, tries again. “Steve.”

This time, Steve jerks irritably, rounding on Clint and looking nine tenths on the way to losing it. He meets Clint’s eyes and very deliberately mouths, “if you want to talk, put your fucking hearing aids in.”

Clint rears back like Steve has swung for him. He looks away but Steve isn’t one for letting something slide; he simply walks over and takes Clint’s head in his hands, making him look up.

“You can’t help like this,” Steve says, palms solid and immovable on Clint’s cheeks. “Put the damn hearing aids in and help me fix this.”

Clint wants to shake his head. “I can’t.”

“You can,” Steve says hotly, and then lets him go. “Please, I need you to talk to Arto for me, he’ll listen to you-”

“I can't,” Clint says again.

Steve’s mouth twists, frustrated. “I know this is hard,” he says, and then pulls his phone out of his pocket again. He gives it several instructions and then it throws up a holoscreen, words appearing in virtual blue as he speaks into his phone, held just in front of his mouth.

_‘You are an Avenger. That means you get up off your ass and you keep on going.’_

“I’m deaf,” Clint snaps. “I’m not much fucking use to you like this.”

Steve visibly bites back what he was going to say. _‘Which is why I need you to put the damn hearing aids in and come and help me.’_

Clint is saved from answering by yet another person appearing in the doorway. He wants to scream; this is his fucking bedroom, what has he got to do to make people _back off._ Natasha doesn’t seem remotely bothered by the obvious tension in the room, just wanders in and sinks to the floor near Clint’s feet, reaching for his hand. Clint feels trapped, penned in from both sides. He looks at Nat pleadingly, imploring her to understand, but she just looks at him with pity before letting go of his hand so she can sign to him.

“Steve’s right,” she says, signing along. “We need you here. Arto won’t forgive Bucky unless you tell him that it’s not Bucky’s fault.”

“I can’t,” he says, like it’s the only thing he’s ever going to be able to say again.

“Stop saying that,” Steve snaps at him, the blue words hanging there judgmentally in the light of the holoscreen. " _You are an Avenger, we need you-"_

"I’m not,” Clint says, and he knows the words have been heard by how Steve and Nat both go very still. Nat reaches for Steve, fingers on his wrist but he jerks away, eyes fixed on Clint. “I’m not an Avenger anymore. Not now. I'm handing in my ID, and my pass. I'm not part of the team anymore.”

“You’re not making that call,” Steve says, eyes furious and glinting through the holoscreen.

Clint finds he doesn’t care. A small spark of anger is enough to keep him looking Steve right in the eye as he says, “I can make my own damn decisions. You’re not my fucking dad, you don’t get to tell me what to do.”

There’s a pause that lasts a lifetime, the moment stretching out, endless and full of grief. It’s like the very air around him is weighed down by what he’s just said, the silence suddenly roaring in his ears. Steve lowers his phone and Clint tenses, ready for the argument to escalate-

It doesn’t. To his utter shock Steve simply pockets his phone, shakes his head and _gives up._

“Fine,” Steve says, mouth flat around the word, disappointment etched into every line of his countenance as he stands up, stepping backwards so Clint can still see and lip-read him. “Do what you fucking want.”

Clint watches as Steve turns his back on him and walks away. Looking pained, Natasha gets up and swiftly follows him, though it’s not obvious whether the move is a show of solidarity or disagreement.

He doesn’t cry. He’s beyond that. The lonely feeling washes back, making him feeling like he’s drowning under the weight of it all. He waits for long minutes, later realising that he’s been waiting for Steve to come back again.

It hurts. Huh. He guesses he’d forgotten what it feels like to be abandoned.

 

* * *

 

Bucky splashes his face with cold water for the fifth time in half an hour, peering up at his reflection and wishing he could get rid of the damn redness around his eyes. His lip is still swollen, though the cut is healing fast, unlike the teeth marks on his shoulder which haven’t even begun to fade yet. He carefully dries his face, folding the towel on autopilot, moving mechanically. His arm hums, an electric crackle of sound, and he clenches his fist hard. His damn arm had what had started this whole thing; Arto’s mistrust and fear of it has led them here. 

He’s not sure he can face Steve right now. He heard him arguing with Clint, heard him storm off in a strop when Clint refused to step in and help. He’d wanted to weigh in and tell Steve to back off, but he hadn’t trusted his voice to stay steady. He barely feels steady now, all bent out of shape by his run in with Arto.

Taking a deep breath, he scrubs his hand over his face and then heads for the door. He opens his mouth and then abruptly shuts it again as he finds the room empty. Oh fuck, Clint hasn't gone to fight it out with Steve some more, has he? Bucky strides out of the bedroom and towards the main door and then freezes like a tracking tiger as he hears noise outside. Crying, and Tony’s voice trying to coax someone into moving.

Ah, shit.

Bucky cautiously edges forwards, debating if he should just stay in here until Arto goes away. But one, he’s not a coward, and two, he’s got a Clint to track down. With that in mind, he steels himself and then opens the door quickly enough to make Tony jump.

“Whoa, _Jesus_ , could you make some noise when you move?” Tony says, annoyed at being startled. He holds out a warning hand, eyes going back to Arto. “Maybe back up, Bucky-”

“No,” Arto sobs. He’s lying on the floor with Bucky Bear in his hand, feet near Tony and head near the door. “Bucky, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Bucky’s heart just about breaks as Arto staggers to his feet and lurches towards Bucky; he holds out Bucky bear, pushing it up towards Bucky’s face in what's clearly meant to be a peace-offering. Bucky grits his teeth and then takes the bear, holding it tightly in his metal hand.

“I’m _sorry,_ ” Arto all but shouts at him, holding onto Bucky’s shirt and pulling. Bucky takes hold of his wrist, trying to stop him tugging.

“Say something,” Tony mouths at him, looking somewhere between impatient and disbelieving, gesturing for Bucky to step up and talk, to reassure Arto. Bucky shakes his head tightly, but he does kneel down and pull Arto in. Tony makes a violently panicked motion, slashing his hand across his throat but Arto simply slumps into Bucky, his arms tucked up between them and his face hidden in Bucky’s shoulder.

Tony winces, one eye clenched shut in anticipation of disaster. When it doesn’t come, he slowly opens his eye and breathes out. “You’re a lunatic,” he says to Bucky, who ignores him. Part of him knows it, has Arto assessed as high risk right now, but the other part of him simply acknowledges that he has to step up and do the right thing again.

“I’m sorry,” Arto says again, and Bucky holds him that bit tighter.

“Clint loves you,” he says quietly. “And I’m never going to get in the way of that, not ever.”

Arto just sobs into his shoulder, all the grief of a child who fears that they’ll be lost once again. It makes Bucky’s own eyes feel too warm, and he fights the grief he can feel in his own heart.

“I’ll go find Clint,” he says quietly. "Tell him to come down and sit with us both, yes?"

Arto doesn't move, and then after what seems like forever, he nods. Bucky hesitates and then presses a quick kiss to the top of Arto’s head, gently pushing him back and handing him back to Tony. Tony scoops him up, looking at Bucky gratefully.

“Go get him,” he says, no trace of any joking or flippancy.

“You got it,” Bucky says, and leaves them there in the corridor. “Jarvis, find me Clint,” he says, heading towards the stairwell. He feels all over the place - only a few minutes ago he was getting over the upset of Arto attacking him, and now Arto is wanting to say sorry and put things right. It's worse than a rollercoaster, it's like that dizzying up and down of recovering from being the Winter Soldier, the constant flux of emotion that he couldn't hope to keep up with.

“Clint is on the roof,” Jarvis tells him calmly. “He has been waiting for you to recover and wishes to speak to you.”

“He’s on the roof?” Bucky repeats incredulously. “It’s fucking thirty-four degrees out there!”

Vaguely panicked, he runs the rest of the way to the roof. Clint being on the roof when he’s upset is a never a good thing, and this time Clint is more than just upset. God, he’s probably up there barefoot and without a coat in the snow like some sort of-

Clearing the final steps, Bucky runs out into the glass-walled corridor that runs alongside the penthouse, faltering as he immediately spots Clint. He’s outside, standing on the helipad, and he’s not alone.

“What the hell,” Bucky whispers, hand reaching out to trace along the cold of the glass as he heads for the door. Why is Thor there? Is he trying to talk Clint back inside? Even as he thinks it, he registers that Clint is fully dressed, wearing boots and his coat. Under his arms are a pair of crutches, and by his feet is a duffel bag.

Comprehension starts to dawn. Bucky finds himself slowing down even further, staring at Clint through the glass. Clint stares back, eyes tired and distant. He might as well be a thousand miles away, not simply on the other side of a damn glass wall.

 _No,_ Bucky thinks to himself, everything in his chest going sharp and tight, shards of glass pressing into his lungs. He pushes the door open mechanically, stepping out into the cold. Flurries of snow dance around the top of the tower, settling on every surface. Thor’s cloak snaps in the breeze, blood red.

Bucky doesn’t speak. Just walks up to stand in front of Clint, feeling like he could either cry or take a swing for him. He keeps his fists and jaw clenched tightly, not trusting himself on either count.

Finally, Clint speaks. “I’ve asked Thor to take me to Asgard.”

The words hang there in the air between them. Bucky feels his mouth open slightly as his heart revolts inside his chest, grief surging back with the realisation of just how south things have gone. It’s exactly what he’d feared the moment he’d seen Clint through the glass. It’s exactly what he hoped against coming true right in front of his eyes, and he’s powerless to stop it.

“You’re _leaving?”_

Clint doesn’t look away as he nods. He looks like he’s utterly given up. “I said some shit to Steve I shouldn’t have,” he says. “And Arto is too much, and I’m...I’m tired, Buck.”

“I’ll come with you,” Bucky says fiercely. “I’m not letting your dumb ass wander around Asgard by itself, you’ll get yourself hurt.”

Clint just shrugs. “Already hurt,” he mumbles. “Stay here. You’ve got to work things out with Arto.”

Bucky can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Me and Arto are fine. You - you can’t just go without me.”

This time Clint does look away. “I’m sorry,” he says, and then he’s nodding at Thor, reaching up to hold onto his shoulder.

“You can’t leave him!” Bucky yells, even though Clint won’t hear him, isn’t looking to lip-read him. Clint nods to Thor and Thor reaches down to pick up the bag, lifting it easily onto his shoulder. Bucky starts to stride forwards, furious. “You dick, don’t you dare leave us!”

Thor looks gravely at Bucky, almost apologetic, but he doesn’t say anything even as he lifts Mjolnir. There’s the rumble of thunder, a huge flash of light, and then they’re gone, leaving Bucky standing alone and staring at the patterns left in the freshly fallen snow.


	4. Chapter 4

To Bucky’s utmost shock and despair, it’s not Arto who freaks out the most when he finds out that Clint is gone. Sure, the kid screams for about an hour and then clambers into his bolt-hole and refuses to come out, but it’s not a patch on what Steve does when he finds out that Clint has upped and left.

Like father like son, Bucky supposes.

It’s Tony that deals with the aftermath. Natasha is left on Arto-watch as Tony responds to Jarvis’s warning that Captain Rogers is alone in the gym and seems somewhat agitated. Yeah, right. Somewhat fucking agitated, indeed.

By the time they get there, it’s too late. Astoundingly, Tony doesn’t even seem to be mildly perturbed. He just surveys the scene then sighs, like Steve going full-Arto is something he’s used to. Not quite as able to process, Bucky hovers outside the gym, looking over the wrecked equipment and broken furniture. It’s utter carnage, and while Bucky isn’t frightened of Steve, he does feel unnerved about just how much force Steve has unleashed while not in control of his feelings. Hell, Bucky’s tried to deliberately break the damn bench press before, just so Tony would upgrade it, but he and Clint had deemed the thing indestructible and given up.

Usually, Bucky would go over and tell Steve to get a grip, maybe ask him to spar or take him out on the bike. He’s good at hiding his worry over Steve and just dealing with him, but right now he’s already had to deal with absconding Clint and feral Arto and he’s fucking _tapped._

Luckily, Tony doesn't hesitate. He just shoulders his way into the gym with his usual air of _‘I own the place therefore I do as I wish’_ ,  hands shoved nonchalantly in his pockets as he picks his way through the mess. He meanders over to Steve’s still form, stopping and leaning against the corner of the boxing ring. Bucky can see his mouth moving as he talks at Steve, who is sitting on the mats with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Steve doesn’t so much as move, not until Tony sinks to his knees and pulls him around, and Bucky watches with a lump in his throat as Steve immediately turns to hold onto Tony, his arms wrapped tight around him and his face buried in his neck.

Fucking assholes, still communicating even when things get fucked up.

Bucky grimaces, turning away. He doesn’t mean it. He’s just...he thinks he’s probably still in shock. Not having Clint next to him feels altogether too much like missing a limb.

He ends up in the conference room, not entirely sure where else to go. He doesn’t want to go back to his and Clint’s room, doesn’t want to go back to his old rooms. The communal area is more than he can handle right now, and even though a part of him wonders if he should go and be on hand just incase Arto goes, but he doesn’t trust that his presence won’t make it worse.

He sits on the couch over by the window with his Glock within grabbing distance on the coffee table; he knows he probably shouldn’t have it there but he’s sick of making Arto-themed concessions and he’s too stressed to have it out of reach. _Whatever, the safety’s on,_ he thinks tiredly, slouching down into the couch and shoving his hands into his pockets as he watches the still-falling snow. They should be up on the roof garden, making snowmen and throwing snowballs at each other. Watching Steve and Arto making snow angels, both of them pink-cheeked and breathless from laughing. Standing there with Omari hanging onto his back, refusing to set foot in the snow because it makes his scales feel strange-

“Hey.”

Bucky lifts his eyes to see Bruce standing there in the door, quiet and pensive. He smiles almost apologetically, like he knows he’s intruding. “How’re you holding up?”

“How’s Steve?” Bucky asks, ignoring the question. He still doesn’t know exactly what was said between Steve and Clint, but it must have been hell for it to end like this. He could ask Jarvis for a recording but he’s not sure quite sure that Steve won’t go off on one again at the invasion of privacy. Maybe he should ask Tony to get the recording, then Tony’ll be the one Steve yells at and Tony has already developed immunity to Steve’s _‘stop recording me’_ rants.

“He’s calmer,” Bruce tells him, easily rolling with Bucky’s bulldozing of the conversation. “Embarrassed, I think.”

“Please, he’s ninety percent righteous anger. What, he thinks trashing the joint is going to shock us?” Bucky snorts. “Kid gets it from somewhere.”

Bruce sighs, walking over and standing nearby, watching the snow swirl against the windowpanes. “This...sucks,” he says, and Bucky finds himself nodding in agreement.

“Arto?”

Bruce grimaces, reaching up to take his glasses off. He looks tired, more so than usual. “Still in the bolt-hole. Tony’s with him, he’s okay. Just upset.”

“Course he is, his asshole big brother has just walked out on him,” Bucky says, and Bruce concedes the point.

“How about you?” he asks again, eyes kind and understanding as he brings the conversation back to his earlier ignored point. It makes Bucky want to crawl back to his room and hide away. This kindness feels alien to him right now. It’s not him that people should be fussing over, it’s Clint with his goddamn broken bones and missing spleen and fucked up ears. Damn, he needs to stop thinking about it or he’s going to kill himself with stress; it’s not like he can do anything about it with Clint a bazillion miles away. Asgard better have some good fucking doctors on call, or he’s going to murder Thor in his sleep.

“M’fine,” he says, turning his eyes back towards the window and trying not to think about Clint tripping or falling or getting an infection or not hearing the goddamn fire alarm. “We should invite Omari over. Distract Arto.”

“Might work,” Bruce says. “I'll suggest it it to Tony, if he hasn't already thought of it. I'll go now, unless you want any company?”

Bucky shakes his head. “No,” he says honestly. “Thanks anyway.”

Bruce inclines his head and makes to leave, but Bucky calls out to him before he can reach the threshold. “Hey, Banner. Tell Sam to leave me alone, right? I don’t want him playing therapist right now.”

Bruce’s mouth hitches in self-deprecation. “Me either, I guess?”

“Nah, you’re not that kind of doctor,” Bucky says. “You don’t try to be, neither.”

“That’s what I keep telling everyone!” Bruce exclaims, shaking his head as he walks out, quietly closing the door behind him and leaving Bucky alone.

He stays where he is for hours, until the night draws in and the sky goes the inky orange-blue of New York’s attempt at darkness. The snow continues to fall; much more of this and they’ll close the subways. Not that it matters to them, sitting high above the streets. The Tower could be in lockdown for weeks and they wouldn’t run short on anything. He’s a little - not disappointed, per se - maybe confused as to why no-one has come to check in with him yet. Normally Wilson jumps at the chance to come and talk to Bucky about feelings, like the guy thinks that he can then put _‘made the Winter Soldier open up’_ on his résumé.

But no, the minutes tick by and no-one so much as bothers him. It does seem a little unjust, he thinks. He’s the one whose boyfriend has upped and left, he’s the one who’s been attacked by Tony and Steve’s goddamn kid, he’s the one who had to carry the love of his life out of the wreckage of that AIM base, not knowing if he was going to make it-

He’s the one who reluctantly acknowledges that with Clint gone, and Steve and Arto in full meltdown, the rest of the team are probably busy. And he did tell Bruce he wanted to be alone, so he’s in no place to be pissy about that happening. And the tower does have a Jarvis, too; they could be monitoring him right now through the AI for all he knows.

It’s only the insistent rumbling of his stomach that eventually makes him move. He’s starving - he’d put the twist in his stomach down to missing Clint but had come to realize that a lack of any decent meals in the last few days has a lot to do with it as well. With a sigh, he unfolds himself from the couch, stealing down to the communal area and hoping he can get some food without coming across anyone else.

The TV is on when he gets down there, bathing the room in flickering light as a film plays. The rest of the area is dimly lit, and Bucky edges in uncertainly, wondering where everyone is.

“Barnes.”

It’s Tony's voice that calls out to him, and Bucky unwillingly steps further into the room. He can’t see Tony, not until a hand appears over the back of the couch, waving at him.

“Over here. Quiet, though.”

Bucky does as bid and pads softly over. As he rounds the edge of the couch, he understands why he’s been asked to be quiet; Tony is lying prone and slumped over him are Steve and Arto, both fast asleep. Steve is half lying on Tony, settled chest-down between Tony’s legs, his head on his stomach. Arto is lying on Steve’s back, face against his shoulder blade and mouth slightly open, snuffling as he breathes.

“How are they not crushing your legs?”

“Strategic weight distribution,” Tony says, gently carding his fingers through Steve’s hair. The light from the arc reactor catches on his wedding ring as he moves his fingers. It makes Bucky think of his frantic and panicked thoughts about marrying Clint so he couldn’t go anywhere, and he despondently wonders that he should have proposed the minute Clint woke up. Maybe then the moron would be here and not gallivanting off to another realm where Bucky can’t look after him.

He forces himself back to the conversation at hand. “If you were strategic, you would have put Steve on the bottom.”

Tony’s mouth twitches, and Bucky hastily throws up a hand.

“You say ‘that’s what he said’ and I’m going to stab you.”

Tony rolls his eyes, looking put out. “That wouldn’t even work there, you are way off of your innuendo game without Barton. Anyway, I don’t mind. He needs the rest and he's probably only crushing my lower spine slightly.”

Bucky nods at Arto. “How did you get him out of the bolt-hole?”

Tony shrugs slightly, as much as he can in his current position. “He always comes out when he’s ready,” he says. “Thought it’d take him longer, to be fair. Had to talk the bigger Rogers out of taking a crowbar to the wall about an hour in, though.”

“I’m surprised he was even calm enough to suggest a crowbar rather than going at it with his bare hands.”

Tony snorts, looking down at Steve with a rueful and fond smile. His hand comes to rest on the back of his head, but Steve sleeps on, oblivious. Arto snuffle-gasps a little and Tony gently puts his other hand on his back, shushing him back down into sleep.

Bucky stands awkwardly for a moment. This is private, family time which he has no place in. Seeing the three of them there together knocks something loose in his chest, and after a moment of wanting to walk away he realizes it’s _envy_. It shocks him a little. He’s never wanted what Steve has before; he’s always had Clint and his friends and his life as the new-and-improved Winter Soldier and that’s been enough.

Stepping back, he runs metal fingers along the back of the couch and then jerks his thumb towards the kitchen. “You want anything?”

Toy frowns at him. “Why are you not freaking out about the fact he’s gone? You didn’t have a hand in the Great Barton Escape, did you? Smuggled him out past Captain Overprotective?”

Bucky knows Tony doesn’t mean anything by it, that he’s just being hyper-verbal, but he feels himself go tense anyway. “You think I’d do that?”

“I think you understand what Barton wants and needs better than the rest of us.”

Bucky sighs at that, deflating. “You’d think,” he mutters, and heads towards the kitchen. “No, I had no idea he was going until he was gone.”

“Barnes - don’t walk away, I can’t follow you!”

“Should have thought of that before you ended up with a super-soldier for a lapcat,” Bucky calls back. “Relax, I’m just getting some food.”

“He is a bit of a lapcat, right?” Tony says absent-mindedly. “Reckon I can get him to purr? Hey, if you’re going to go after Barton, please let us know before you leave, I don’t think Steve could handle you vanishing, too.”

Bucky has to take a moment to process everything that Tony’s just said, bracing himself against the kitchen counter. There a long and extensive list of things that he doesn’t want to start imagining there - Steve purring is definitely the top spot, followed swiftly by what would happen if Bucky _did_ just up and leave. Steve nearly ruined the damn government trying to get Bucky back when he was in full Winter Soldier mode; Bucky’s not got the biggest ego in the tower but he does know they’d be contending with more than just a trashed gym if _he_ decided to leave Steve in the lurch.

“First off, that was too close to innuendo for me, thanks. Second, I’m not leaving.”

“If you need to go after Barton, go. I can deal with Steve. Just give him a heads up.”

Bucky doesn’t agree with that assessment, but he’s too tired to argue. Besides, Tony might not appreciate Bucky’s comments on how important Bucky is to Steve; he’s better than he used to be but there’s still a mild flare of jealousy that rears its ugly head ever so often. “I’m not going after him. He wants to be on his own, I can respect that. And how the hell am I meant to get to Asgard anyway? Thor’s already fucked off, and I can’t exactly hop on a red-eye.”

There’s no reply to that, so Bucky continues poking listlessly through the cupboards, wondering what he wants to eat. He settles on grilled cheese, though he’s not sure he’s going to actually eat it when it’s made. His stomach feels oddly empty yet full of lead, uncomfortable and unsettling.

“Hey,” Tony’s voice calls. “Make Arto one, too? He’ll be hungry when he wakes up.”

Bucky nods without thinking about it. When he’s finished up, he does briefly wonder if he should stay, if he should be there when Arto wakes up, to help comfort him. It only takes one glance back over at the Rogers-Stark family to make up his mind; he leaves Arto’s food plated up on the counter and takes his back to the conference room.

It’s just as quiet and cold as it was before; he could ask Jarvis to sort the temperature out but it’d be wasteful to heat this room just because he doesn’t want to be anywhere else that’s already climate controlled. He sets his own plate down on the coffee table and curls back up in the corner of the couch. The snow outside has gone from a steady drift into a full blizzard, the wind howling across the iron-white sky beyond.

He manages to force down half of his grilled-cheese before he’s interrupted, luckily by Jarvis and not an actual person with feelings he can hurt by being an asshole to. Though actually, from what he knows of Jarvis, the damn robot probably has more human feelings than _him._

“Agent Barnes, Mister Wilson is requesting a check in with you and would like to know if you will let him into the conference room without, and I quote, being an asshole.”

Bucky crosses his arms across his chest. “Tell him if he comes in here I’m going to take him outside and smother him in a snowdrift.”

There’s a long pause, and then Jarvis speaks again. “He says that he will wait for you to come to him.”

“He can keep waiting,” Bucky mutters, resting his head on his metal fist and closing his eyes. “Lock the door, Jarvis.”

“As you wish,” Jarvis replies, but Bucky is too tired to even pay him any attention, instead watching as the world outside is slowly smothered the city in inches soundless white _. ‘I know how that feels_ ,’ Bucky thinks to himself, before exhaustion overcomes him and he slides unstoppably and willingly into the nothingness of sleep.

 

* * *

 

Bucky’s only half-asleep when he hears the door to the conference room click open. He sits up, pulling his pilfered blanket around his shoulders, ready to tell whoever the hell it is to fuck off and leave him to sleep or-

Oh, hell.

He can’t say that to Arto.

With a sigh, he slumps back onto the couch, facing the cushions and hauling his blanket back over him. He hears shifting by the doorway, a hiccup that sounds like Arto trying not to cry. Bucky gropes around on the couch until he finds his phone, and blinks blearily at the time. Four thirteen. Fuck that’s early.

“Arto, go back to bed,” he groans.

“No,” Arto replies, and Bucky hears footsteps shuffling closer to his makeshift bed. Arto doesn’t come all the way though, and Bucky would bet that he’s ground to a halt about halfway across the room. He’s too tired to work out why Arto is here instead of in his own bed, bothering him instead of bothering Steve and Tony.

 _Because of Clint,_ a voice in his head supplies. _He’s here because you’re probably the closest thing he has to Clint right now._

The thought makes his throat go tight, his eyes feel too warm. He sighs, rubbing at his eyes. “Stop hovering. You either get over here, Short-Round, or you leave me alone.”

There’s not even a momentary pause. He hears footsteps and then Arto is scrambling onto the couch, pressing against Bucky’s back. There’s a moment of quivering silence, and then Bucky feels Arto shake and the sound of quietly muffled tears between his shoulder blades.

Oh, _hell._

“Hey, cut it out,” Bucky says roughly. Arto just cries harder, his forehead pressed to Bucky’s spine. “Come on, stop it,” he says, elbowing Arto, a rough jerk back with his real arm. Arto just punches him back, a small fist hitting him on his shoulder as he cries. God, he hopes this doesn’t escalate into any real attempt at violence; his bruises and bite marks from their last fight have only just faded.   

“Steve won’t tell me where he is,” Arto sobs. “He won’t let me talk about him.”

 _Well fuck you, Rogers,_ Bucky thinks bitterly. He is _not_ equipped to be the one picking up the pieces of this mess, not by a long shot.

He’s not sure if any of them are.

“Steve is a jackass,” Bucky mutters, and a small fist hits him between his shoulder blades again, though it lacks any sort of force or intent. He gets the hint anyway; no being mean about Steve, gottit. He sighs, deciding to just be honest. Lying to small children never ends well, and he’s not about to start lying to one who is a) smarter than he looks and b) shown a willingness to try and beat him up. “Clint is with Thor, on Asgard.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because a building fell on him and he got real hurt and he’s upset about it and he wants to be on his own to get over being upset,” Bucky says, and rolls over so he’s facing Arto. They’re way too close, but Bucky ignores the discomfiture. “You know he’s deaf now, right? He can’t hear?”

Arto nods slowly. “But that doesn’t mean he has to leave. Tony said he’d fix his ears right up.”

Bucky breathes out a soft, sad huff of laughter. “Your dad thinks he can fix everything. But this isn’t one he can just make better by building stuff.”

“Can,” Arto replies, hundred percent stubborn Rogers. “Dad says Clint should just wear the hearing things.”

“Which Dad? Steve Dad?” Bucky asks, and Arto nods, still scowling. Right. Even though Bucky very much wants to, he can’t call Steve out on being a jackass again, because he knows that won’t go down very well. Arto wriggles closer and Bucky grimaces, wishing that Arto had even a smidgen of awareness about personal space.

“Okay, okay. Sit up,” he grouches, getting up and sitting back. Arto moves back and sits in the opposite corner of the couch, his knees tucked up under his chin and his fingers curled around his toes. He’s probably cold, Bucky thinks absently, and leans over to toss the blanket over Arto’s feet. He half expects Arto to shove it away but he doesn’t, just wriggles his toes and then settles back down.

“Okay, this is…”

“Stupid?” Arto offers, and Bucky laughs shortly.

“Yeah, stupid,” he says, and then takes a deep breath and decides to carry on. “Clint...Clint is hurting real bad. Not just his leg and his arm. It’s his ears, being deaf. Having something like that happen is a big shock for a person, and he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t think he can be a superhero anymore.”

“But he _can,_ ” Arto says, looking anguished. “He can just wear the hearing aids.”

“Yeah, we know that,” Bucky says, trailing off. He looks up over Arto’s head at the falling snow, wondering what to say. Arto doesn’t understand - hell, he’s not sure if he understands - and he doesn’t know whether to lie, stay silent or be honest.

Damn those big blue eyes. He can’t lie to them.

“Okay, I’m gonna tell you something, but it’s a secret,” he says, and Arto’s eyes go wider, full of surprise and the curious trust of an eleven-year-old. “Clint will yell at me if you tell him that I’ve told you.”

Arto nods quickly, jerkily. “I won’t tell.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, and mentally braces himself. “You know how...you know how before you got here, there were grown-ups who weren’t so nice to you?”

Arto nods again, but otherwise doesn’t react. Relieved by the lack of tantrum, Bucky carries on. “Okay, so when Clint was small, he had people who weren’t so nice to him. They hurt him, and once they hurt him so bad that he went deaf.”

“They hurt his ears?” Arto mumbles over his knees.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “They got better though and he could hear again. But this happening all over again reminds him of when that bad shit happened before, so he’s not thinking right.”

Arto blinks at him again. “Like when Steve makes me go to the dentist.”

“Yeah!” Bucky says, gesturing to him and feeling genuinely impressed with Arto managing to draw that as a parallel. “Yeah, just like that. It reminds you of the bad stuff, so it makes you stressed and scared and angry.”

Suddenly looking tired, Arto rubs his eyes with his fingers. “I’m sorry I hit you,” he says in a small voice, and Bucky’s heart just about breaks. Dammit.

“It’s okay, you were scared and not thinking,” Bucky says, and takes a gamble. “But you do that to me again and I am not going to be your friend any longer, you got that?”

Arto nods and then he’s moving, crawling over into Bucky’s knee in a way he _never_ does. Bucky can count on the fingers of one hand how many times Arto has voluntarily come to him, has decided to sit with him. Hell, he could count and still have enough fingers left over to poke Steve and Clint in their goddamn eyes. Still, unexpectedness of the move aside, he welcomes it, allowing Arto to curl up against him.

“No biting,” Arto says, his voice thick with tears.

Bucky gently sets his metal hand on Arto’s knee. “You gottit,” he says, and gives Arto a gentle squeeze before murmuring to him, “It’s okay, I miss him too.”

That makes Arto start to cry again, but this time it’s tears of pure grief, none of the anger that he’d shown when he’d first come into the conference room. It’s contagious; Bucky suddenly feels Clint’s absence like a gaping hole in his chest, an unbearable weight twisted into the pit of his stomach.

“Steve’s mad at him,” Arto sobs into Bucky’s chest. “He shouldn’t be.”

“He’s upset, too,” Bucky says. “You know how he gets when he’s upset. He turns into a stressy grumpus.”

“Shouts,” Arto says, and Bucky finds that he’s unconsciously taken to rocking Arto back and forth like he’s a baby. He’s not, but he doesn’t seem to mind being treated a bit like one.

“Yeah, he does.”

They both fall silent. Arto cries a little more but soon he falls asleep, slumped against Bucky’s chest with a frown on his face. He’s making sleepy snuffles that are almost snores, probably exacerbated by his crying. Bucky lets him doze, watching the snow out of the window and feeling oddly sedate. It’s like he’s just finished a mission and has overcome the adrenaline high, feeling washed out and calm and contemplative.

Distantly, he’s aware of a huge shift in dynamic. He’s never had this sort of relationship with Arto, never thought he’d want to be like this with Arto. However, today seems to have thrown him utterly for a loop; being hit with that unprecedented envy at seeing the Stark-Rogers family unit on the couch and now having Arto curl up with him like he’s Steve or Tony or Clint or even Natasha - well, it’s making Bucky feel not quite like himself in a way he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to explain.

“We’ll be okay,” he murmurs softly, even though Arto is dead-out asleep. He reaches over and tugs the blanket up over the both of them, feeling the lump in his throat come back. “We’ll all be okay, I promise.”   

 

* * *

 

Slowly, Clint resurfaces into the land of the living. His head is pounding and his mouth feels like something has crawled in and died there during the night, remnants of his puking after travelling via the bifrost. Man, he never normally throws up with inter-dimensional travel, that’s Bucky’s gig.

The moment he thinks it, he feels a leaden weight settle over him and for a moment he thinks he might throw up again. God, _Bucky_. He left Bucky behind, standing there in the snow and Clint just left-

 _For good reason_ , he tells himself, and slowly pushes himself into a sitting position, wincing as his stitches protest. At least the dull pain is enough to distract, enabling him to shove all thoughts of Bucky from his mind as he takes in his surroundings-

_“Whoa.”_

He doesn’t hear the soft sound he makes when he looks at where he is, but he feels the awe and surprise anyway. It’d been dark and he’d been half-conscious when Thor had bought him in from the bifrost, and it's only now that he's getting the chance to properly look.

The room he’s in is all cavernous vaulted ceilings and deep silver drapes, stone arches and gold furnishings. An open window stands to his right, shimmering with some sort of weird silvery cover instead of glass. Sunlight floods in, not too different from the cold winter light back home. It’s beautiful, and Clint can’t shake the feeling that he’s really not supposed to be here.

He looks closer to him; the bed is set on a slightly raised dais, and is covered in several inches of blankets and furs. It just screams decadence, forcibly reminding Clint that Thor is in fact a prince who is probably richer than Tony. What’s the exchange rate from Asgardian gold to dollars, anyway? He’d get Tony to work it out, but Tony would probably refuse on the grounds that it might prove that Thor is richer, and besides, Clint left Tony behind as well as everyone else when he decided to leave.

Thinking along those lines just makes him feel like shit again, so he makes himself stop, instead shuffling awkwardly to the edge of the bed and swinging pajama-clad legs out. The stone floor is cold under his bare foot, which prompts a few seconds of cursing before he gets used to it and starts to move.

Shivering and achy, he heads towards the window first and as he gets closer he realizes that the shimmery silver cover is in fact a force-field. Curious, he reaches out to touch but his fingers just sink straight through it, meeting frigid air on the other side. _Okay,_ he thinks. _Just a force field. You can go through a force-field.Try not to think of getting stuck in the force field._ He takes a deep breath and limps through, immediately regretting it. He’s ended up on a small balcony-terrace type thing and holy shit it is _cold_. Shivering, he hops up to the balustrade, eyes scanning the scene in front of him. To his right there’s a towering golden wall, almost blinding as it reflects the sun. One of the walls of the palace, Clint thinks, which can only mean he’s actually been allowed to stay _inside_ the palace. Beyond that stretches a lake, its deep navy surface flowing determinedly away. Small islands of green are dotted around, trees with oddly shaped leaves reaching up towards the sky. Bird wheel overhead, huge black ravens, their cawing lost on Clint.

It’s stunning. Calm and peaceful yet oddly intimidating. Hey, kind of like Bucky, really.

Clint grits his teeth and turns away, limping back into the room. He bypasses the bed and heads for the door. It’s heavy wood of some sort with intricate gold overlays arranged in concentric circles, and it takes an embarrassing amount of effort to even get the thing moving. When he finally does, he pokes his head out and finds the corridor beyond is utterly empty.

“Hello?” he calls, and then wants to smack himself around the back of the head because even if someone hears him and calls back, he’s not going to be able to hear them, is he?

 _Dumbass,_ he tells himself. He can easily imagine Steve telling him that he’s being a dumbass, and the thought makes his chest feel like it’s caving in. Steve wouldn’t, would he? But then again, Clint never thought Steve would give up on him either.

He makes himself keep moving, hobbling to the end of the corridor. He’s nervous; he’d usually rely on listening for people or movement, but with that taken away from him he’s anticipating someone appearing and making him jump at any moment. A hefty shove through another door and he finds himself in a giant hall, with ceilings so high that he bets they get their own damn weather report. Several vast tables stretch from end to end, easily enough to seat several hundred people. It’s all set up and decked out in gold; chairs and plates and goblets and trays set atop deep crimson runners.

 _What’s the occasion,_ he wonders, standing close to the edge of the table. He reaches out and flicks one of the goblets with his fingernail, wondering if it makes a sound like a crystal one would. Sighing, he walks along the length of the table, stopping when he gets to two chairs at the center which are considerably more ornate than the others. Clint knows he probably shouldn’t touch but he does anyway, running his hand over the carvings on the headrests.

Where the hell is everyone? It seems Thor took him really seriously when he said he wanted to be alone for a while.

He absently picks up one of the goblets, placing it rim to rim with another, balancing it on top. Without really thinking about why, he picks up a third and sets the base atop the upended base of the second. He leans back, eyeing his tower critically. Good, but could be better.

He’s on his seventh and has ignored both common sense and his pain threshold in order to clamber his way up onto the table when he realises he’s being watched. He leans back to check the structural integrity of his goblet tower when over the rim of the seventh he sees a woman standing by the doors and watching him.

“Shit,” he curses and almost drops the goblet, knocking it with his casted hand and then somehow grabbing it in his good hand, wobbling precariously atop the table. The woman just looks at him with a mildly intrigued expression on her face and then steps forwards, the train of her blue dress trailing on the floor behind her. She’s older than he is, and she exudes calm beauty and power.

Her mouth moves as she walks over but Clint doesn't catch what she says. He looks around and grimaces, making a show of clambering down from the table. His leg throbs dully; maybe using the furniture like a jungle gym was more ill advised than he initially thought.

“Uh, I’m Clint,” he says, flailing and almost falling, his side burning with dull pain as he stretches too far. “I’m here with Thor?”

The woman doesn’t smile, but somehow she does. Her mouth doesn’t move at any rate. “My son told my that-” she begins, and Clint misses the end of the sentence, other than the world ‘ _invalid._ ’ She carries on with, “not an acrobat.”

Oh fucksticks. He’s been here less than twelve hours and he’s already made an idiot of himself in front of the damn Queen of Asgard.

“I’m sorry,” he says, mentally cringing because yes this is Queen Frigga and the first thing he’s said to her was a curse word. “I was just...” he manages to get back to floor level, wincing. “I have no idea what I’m doing, I’m sorry. I mean, I’m sorry your majesty? Your highness? Your honour?”

She takes pity on him. “Your majesty if you are being formal, Allmother or ma’am if you are not.”

“Ma’am, let’s go with ma’am,” Clint says quickly. “I can deal with that.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Frigga says. “However, be ready for reprimands from the guards when you forget.”

Clint is a little stumped. “How do you know I’m going to forget? Ma’am?”

“I know a lot. Like I know that you should be resting, not climbing all over the feasting tables.” As she speaks, she holds out her hand. In it is a small silver ball, etched with runes. She doesn’t say anything more, just reaches with her other hand to fold his fingers around it, pressing his thumb against a smooth indentation in the metal.

“It’s Allspeak,” she says, and the words coalesce in the air above the silver ball, just like Steve’s phone had done when they were arguing. “It will show you what is being said in the tongue you need it in. Normally it would just allow you to understand what is being said, but for you it has sensed a different need.”

“Good job I can read,” Clint says, suddenly feeling very small. “I don’t need this. Thank you, Ma’am, but I don’t need this.”

“It is a gift from the Queen of Asgard,” Frigga says with another not-smile. “You would not be rude enough to turn it down, surely?”

Clint grimaces at the words. “It feels expensive.”

“Oh, it is,” Frigga says. “Do not lose it.”

“I’ll do my best,” Clint says. “Uh, I’m sorry about….” he trails off, waving his casted hand at the table and corresponding mess behind him.

“Put it all back and we shall pretend it never happened,” Frigga says. “And then go to the Healers. Take the corridor back to your room and continue. The guards at the end will tell you where to go from there.”

Clint’s fingers tighten around the ball, automatically feeling resentful at being told what to do. It fades pretty quickly though, mostly because he can’t find the energy to maintain it, but also because she’s the goddamn _Queen_ and he can’t exactly ignore her.

“Where’s Thor? Ma’am? I mean, where’s Thor, Ma’am?”

“Meeting with his father, so don’t expect him for some time,” Frigga says. “No more climbing on tables, young Barton.”

She sweeps away, leaving Clint staring at the back of her intricately braided head. “Young Barton?” he says, and scowls at the ball in his hand as his own words dance in front of him in gold. “And you can shut up, too.”

 

* * *

 

 

Clint doesn’t go to the healers.

After Frigga leaves, he does as she’s asked and puts the goblets, plates and furnishings all back in order. However, he finds himself growing more and more aware of a growing knot in his belly as he does, a knot which winds tighter with every absent clink and thump, with every unheard scrape of the chairs on the floor. He keeps thinking of missing the sound of Bucky's breathing, hearing only the faintest blurred edge of Arto's shouting. 

By the time he’s done, he wants to scream.

He slinks goes back to his room and goes back to sleep, burying himself under the impossible amount of furs away from the cold air and glittering gold. He doesn’t have nightmares, but he does dream that he’s with Bucky in the car, driving down an endless highway and arguing over what songs to listen to. It ends after Bucky throws his Stark-Pod out of the window.

He wakes without moving, becoming aware of the way his body is curled up, the weight of the blankets. The warmth in his eyes, the ache in his chest, the pressure in his head from not being able to fucking hear.

He might just stay here forever. Or at least, until everything just goes away.

  


	5. Chapter 5

“Hey Buck, have you seen Arto?”

Frowning, Bucky looks up from the array of paperwork that’s spread out over the conference room table to see Steve leaning in through the open doorway. “You know you can ask Jarvis to find him for you?”

Steve pulls a face. “I’m not going to be a hypocrite,” he says mildly. “That’s for emergency use only.”

Bucky shrugs. The monitoring slash tracking issue is Steve’s to wrangle with and Bucky’s long since given up on trying to get him to relax about it. “Yeah, he’s under the table,” he says, flicking to the next page and scowling at the _‘sustained injuries’_ section. He’s been putting that bit off all morning but he knows he’s going to have to face it at some point, especially as the number of incomplete sections on the report is dwindling.

“No I’m not,” a voice says from somewhere down by his feet, and Bucky raises a pointed eyebrow at Steve. Steve huffs out a laugh and comes into the room fully; he looks over the makeshift bed on the couch but doesn’t comment, instead walking over to the table, crouching down on his heels and holding onto the edge of the table with strong fingers as he looks underneath.

“What’re you doing under there?” Steve asks gently, fondness evident in his voice.

“Drawing,” Arto replies. “Homework.” There’s some shuffling, but Arto doesn’t come out; a weight settles against Bucky’s legs and he rolls his eyes but doesn’t kick Arto off.

Steve reappears above the table, looking a little bemused. “So you two made up.”  
  
“Sure did,” Bucky says,deciding to not go into detail about how Arto hasn’t left his side since he came and found him the night before, how Arto had followed him for breakfast and then straight back up to the conference room when they were done, standing so close to Bucky’s side that he had been a tripping hazard. He sighs down at the computer in front of him, fingers tapping lightly against keys but not pressing hard enough to form letters. “This is taking me hours.”

“What is it?” Steve pulls out the chair next to him and sits down.

“Mission report from Italy,” Bucky says, and Steve rears back, looking startled.

“You don’t have to do that-”

Bucky rubs wearily at his temple. “Yes, I do. Coulson has already called and asked for it.”

Steve goes very still, face clouding with anger. “No, you don’t,” he says shortly, and leans over to shut the laptop lid. Not wanting the damn thing broken, Bucky lifts his metal arm to shove Steve’s hand aside, using his real hand to push the laptop out of reach.

“Get out of here,” he says. “I’ve got to do it, Steve, I can’t just pick and choose.”

Steve frowns at him, now looking more worried than angry. He opens his mouth but then closes it again, probably choosing his words carefully considering the eavesdropper under the table.

“I don’t want you to hurt anymore than you are,” he finally says.

Bucky nods. He’s grateful for what Steve is trying to do, but he doesn’t tear up or feel any rushing wave of sadness; it’s just the same empty ache in the bottom of his stomach.

“I can do it,” he says. “If I didn’t want to, there’s no way on this Earth that Coulson could make me, you know that.”

“Alright,” Steve concedes, though he doesn’t look entirely happy. He gives up arguing at any rate, which is something, instead turning his attention back to the stowaway under the table. “Hey Art, we going out for pancakes? Tony's out of the workshop, let's steal him before he goes back.”

“Yes,” is the immediate response, and Arto scrambles out from under the table, leaning against Steve’s side and letting him drop a kiss on his forehead. “And bacon.”

“Done,” Steve says. “Tidy your stuff up.”

Arto huffs, slumping even further into Steve’s side, his cheek now mashed against Steve’s shoulder. “I’ll tidy up after?”

“You’ll tidy up now.”

“Can Bucky tidy up?”

Bucky snorts. “No, he cannot.”

Arto makes a disgruntled noise but does deign to duck back under the table, retrieving a tablet, sketchbook and pencil case, tossing them onto the table next to Bucky’s paperwork. “That’s okay right? They’re off the floor.”

“I’ll take it,” Steve says. “Go get your shoes.”

Arto darts away, leaving Steve and Bucky sitting silently. Bucky taps at the laptop again, the sound too loud in the quiet of the room. He goes to re-read his last sentence, about the civilian woman and child he’d encountered in the stairwell-

_“Spostare fuori strada!”_

_“Don’t be afraid. I’m an Avenger. We’re here fighting the men who are taking your sons and daughters.”_

_“Non farci del male!”_

\- and this time doesn’t protest when Steve leans over to gently close the laptop. He blinks slowly, shaking off the lingering tendrils of memory, the echoes of terrified screaming and crying. He’s back in the room quickly, so smoothly that he doubts that anyone but Clint would have noticed the lapse.

“Come with us,” Steve says, oblivious to Bucky’s turbulent memory. “Pancakes on me.”

Abruptly, Bucky finds himself thinking that moment when he’d seen Tony with Steve and Arto asleep atop him, the soft smiles and gentle touches shared. The weight in his chest seems to intensify, and he shakes his head. “No, thanks.”

“You’re always welcome to come with us,” Steve begins, but Bucky shakes his head again, stopping Steve before he can really get going.

“I know. But…” he trails off, wondering where he’s going to fall on the divide between honest and flippant. “Kinda feel like a traitor going without Clint for pancakes, you know?”

He half expects a half-funny joke about codependency - which is definitely hypocritical coming from Steve, considering how he is when he’s forced to be without Tony for more than twenty-four hours - but instead Steve’s jaw goes tight. “He’s the traitor. He’s the one that left.”

Utterly shocked, Bucky’s mouth drops open. “Steve!”

Steve gets up, looking slightly guilty. “Forget it.”

“Come on, I know what he did was a dick move-”

“How are you defending him?” Steve bursts out, and then his face shutters completely. It’s like his feelings have all just gone into cryofreeze, locked down and frozen solid. It’s impressive, and also one of Steve’s less endearing qualities. “Forget it. I’m not talking about it.”

“Steve, you can’t just-”

“I’m not talking about it, and I’m not talking about him!” Steve says, voice rising to a shout. “Not until he gets his act together and comes back-” he abruptly cuts himself off, taking a deep, steadying breath. When he speaks again his voice is measured and calm, and he sounds more like Captain America than he does Steve. “I think we best leave this alone, Buck. Not sure I can be calm about it, and I’ve got no right to dump this on you.”

Bucky can only nod, mind already in overdrive, assessing and calculating. Why is Steve still so bent out of shape over this? What is it between him and Clint that’s gone so terribly wrong that they won’t even mention the other’s name? He has two options here: he can keep schtum and wait it out, maybe try and speak to Steve another day, or he can attempt to retrieve the information right now.

“What the hell did you and Clint argue about, anyway? When I was in the bathroom?”

Steve replies very pointedly by walking away, somehow without slamming the door. Bucky watches him go, cursing himself for trying to be so direct. For once he’s unable to think of how to deal with Steve, and is only able to sit there and wonder just what the hell has happened to all of them.

 

* * *

 

Clint spends the next three days sleeping, eating and sleeping some more. He’s left mostly to his own devices; Thor checks in every evening and asks him if he needs anything, always calm and compassionate. Every morning, a guard brings him food, water and deliveries from the healers. Warm golden liquids that clear the pain in his body and apparently keep him healthy even without his spleen. He drinks them without argument, without really caring.  

Other than those minor points of contact, he’s left alone, nursing a faint, dull headache and feeling precisely nothing.  

That is, until one morning when he’s abruptly woken by an intruder who rouses him from his twelfth hour of sleep by throwing a pitcher of water over him.

He lets out what is probably not a manly yelp - so in a way, he’s kinda glad he can’t properly hear the pitch of it - throwing a hand up and trying to scramble away because _oh god cold_. Sopping wet, he coughs and wipes his face with his good hand, coming face to face with a lithe, blond figure. He clocks the green leather jacket and the too-tight breeches, and then the neatly trimmed blond beard and moustache. Before he can recall the name that goes with the man, the man tosses something to him in a easy underarm swing. Clint reflexively catches it and sighs as he realises it’s the Allspeak ball.

“Rise and shine, Barton!”

The words literally dance in front of him, mocking him as they shimmer in the air. Clint wafts them away with his hand, scowling and trying to push away the soaking blankets. He automatically looks to his right but of course there’s no Bucky there. He’d curse himself for doing it, but he’s done it every damn morning since he got to Asgard.

“The hell?”

More words form as the man carries on talking; Clint finds himself looking at his mouth moving and then at the words, almost checking his unconscious attempt at lip-reading.

“Well don’t you look delightful. I can see why Thor asked me to do this, looking at you is making me utterly miserable.”

Clint is about to snap back but the intruder chooses that exact moment to stride across the room to yank the curtains back, flooding the room with winter light. Clint curses and lifts his casted hand clumsily to save his retinas from extinction.

“What’re you doing in here?” Clint manages to get out, squinting as he tries to focus on the man. “Who the hell are you?”

“Fandral, at your service,” the man says, and Clint screws up his face in confusion.

“Thor’s friend, Fandral?”

Fandral presses a hand to his heart as if he’s hurt. “Is that all I am? I am one of the Warriors Three, chief swordmaster of Asgard and you reduce me to Thor’s friend?”

“Yeah but you are Thor’s friend, right?”

Fandral sighs. “Yes. I am also friend of Thor. Which means, I am a friend to you too. Now, you’ve been invited to breakfast, so we have to get you up and turned back into a passable Midgardian.”

Clint shakes his head, trying again to push the wet blankets away. He curses under his breath, picking a sort of dry section to wipe his face on. “Tell Thor I’m eating in here.”

“Not Thor,” Fandral says, and he actually walks over and pulls the blankets from Clint’s bed, furs and all. “The Allmother has invited you, and you can’t say no to that.”

Ah, shit. No he can’t, really.

“But - I can’t go see her like this.”

“Exactly,” Fandral says. “We have to get you washed up and cleaned up and to the healers before you even step foot in the royal chambers.”

Clint just wants to curl up and hide again, soaking wet covers be damned. “Do I have to?” he asks, and oh god, he probably sounds like Arto does when he’s told he’s got to be washed.

Fandral gestures towards the adjacent bathroom. “Yes,” he says. “Or Thor himself will come and make you.”

Clint drops his head to hang low. “Well, when you put it like that,” he mutters, and then hauls himself out of bed. Fandral claps him on the shoulder bracingly. Clint just grunts at him and passes the Allspeak ball back before hobbling into the bathroom. There are clean towels hanging on the edge of a stone basin, a clean change of clothes hanging up beside the window. He turns on his heel and sure enough, Fandral is standing there in the doorway.

“Are the clothes for me?”

Fandral nods. “Yes,” he says clearly. “Now wash. You smell like a-”

Clint has no idea what he smells like; he fails to lipread the last word. He bets it’s nothing flattering, though, so he complies and limps up to the basin, dipping his fingers into the water. Surprisingly, it’s warm, and as such he doesn’t hesitate to scoop up a handful and splash it over his face.

“You just gonna watch me?” he calls out, and drags his hand over his face to get rid of the lingering droplets of water. When he looks up, Fandral is still there, grinning at him.

“Is that an invitation?”

“No,” Clint says, pulling a face. “I have a-” the word catches in his throat, snagging like barbed wire. He has a Bucky, he wants to say, but there’s a nagging voice in the back of his mind that is second-guessing, wondering if he even has a Bucky after walking out on them like that. “No,” he repeats shortly, looking down and away. His right hand is shaking minutely; he clenches it into a fist to try and stop it, glaring up at Fandral again.

“Message received,” Fandral says, and bows lavishly before retreating.

“Weirdo,” Clint mutters, turning his attention back to the basin. He drags his fingers through the water listlessly, wondering what the hell Frigga wants with him. Probably to tell him to stop cluttering up her palace and fuck off home.

He doesn’t dwell on it for long, though. He goes through the motions of cleaning up and getting dressed, though he does spare a few minutes to feel strangely uncomfortable in the long, almost-tunic like shirt and breeches that he’s been given. The fabric is heavy and expensive-feeling, decorated with intricate, barely-visible stitching and edged with yellow-gold trim. There’s a black leather sleeveless jerkin that he dons, though he leaves behind the gold-lined cloak, hoping he’s not going to get in trouble for doing so. The boots he’s been provided with fit perfectly on his uncasted foot, but he leaves them with the cloak and puts his converse back on instead. It’s black, so it mostly matches his outfit, right?

As clean and presentable as he can hope to get, he leaves the bathroom to find Fandral lounging on the dry part of his bed, balancing a sword on the tip of his finger. When Clint appears, he looks up and his face brightens.

“Wow,” he says clearly, springing up and coming to stand in front of Clint, stowing his sword away without having to look. “You do clean up well.”

He reaches into his pocket for something and Clint has to resist the automatic urge to grab his wrist. Fandral grins as if he knows exactly what Clint was thinking, and produces a long golden chain, which he attaches the Allspeak ball to before looping it around Clint’s neck.

“There,” he says, and Clint glances down to see the word. It makes his throat go tight because it’s exactly what he didn’t want, some obvious indication of his disability. It’s a gift though, so he can’t exactly turn it down-

His thoughts grind to a halt as he realizes that that’s exactly what he did to Tony. It’s not the same - Tony’s not the Queen of Asgard or anything, so it’s probably more okay to refuse help from him. But still, it stands. He threw Tony’s help back in his face.

Great. He’ll just have to add Tony to the list of people he’s disappointed.

“Come along,” the words tell him, and he jerks his chin up to see Fandral looking at him curiously. “You could at least humor me by pretending to be happy to see me?”

“Let’s get this over with,” Clint says, and he can feel how toneless his voice is. Fandral doesn’t argue, just retrieves a pair of tall, curved, antler-like sticks which flummox Clint for a moment before Fandral tucks them under his arms and wraps his hands around two of the curved protrusions.

Oh. Asgardian crutches it is then.

Fandral checks Clint has got his balance and then gestures towards the door and strides away, Clint following in his wake. They take a route that Clint hasn’t yet traversed, not that that’s saying much seeing as he’s been out of his room a grand total of once since arriving.

He remembers exactly why he’s not left his room the minute they step out of the immediate corridors: people. Asgard is full of them. It catches him almost unawares, the way they step through a seemingly unobtrusive door and suddenly find themselves in the thick of things. Soldiers march mast, their armor gleaming silver and cold in the pale sunlight. Civilians too, carrying anything and everything from baskets of food to armfuls of books, some just walking arm in arm with others, mouths moving in animated conversation. There are children too, darting around the slow-moving adults with the determined purpose known only to anyone under the age of twelve.  

“Whoa,” Clint mutters, trying to shift sideways out of the path of a guard riding a huge black horse. It tosses its head and snorts, its breath visible on the air. He only succeeds in bumping into a man carrying a large leather bag in his hands; the man apologizes but moves on quickly.

He needs Bucky, with his murder-glare and ability to part a crowd without saying a word. He doesn’t have Bucky though, so he’ll just have to make do with Fandral. Luckily Fandral must hold some authority, because as he steps up to Clint to guide him along, people do move out of the way, usually with respectful nods.

“Welcome to the real Asgard,” Fandral says, walking backwards so Clint can see his mouth, somehow without bumping into anyone. “It’s not all palaces and empty feasting halls, you know.”

Clint grunts in acknowledgement, swinging his crutches again, trying to keep his rhythm. They’re crossing a bridge; the slope is gentle but it‘s still so much more effort to get up. He’s tempted to throw the damn crutches over the edge into the water and just limp his way to wherever the hell they’re going.

“You’ve got friends,” Fandral says as they head down the opposite side of the bridge. Clint doesn’t catch the words though so Fandral repeats himself and then points behind them; Clint slows to a halt and glances over his shoulder to see a bunch of giggling children, a couple of them hiding behind the tallest. She can’t be more than ten years old, smiling cheekily at him and waving.

Clint sticks his tongue out and the kids all laugh, scattering and running away. They don’t go far though, and Clint would bet his bow that they’ll be following him again the minute he starts walking. Arto and Omari are the same, sometimes they’ll follow him around the tower for ages, Arto laughing hysterically every time Clint turns around and asks him what the hell he’s trying to do.

He never did find out what the point of the following was.

They pass across one more bridge which spans a huge fast-flowing expanse of water. Clint wishes he could hear it, but it’s just another wish in a long - and ever growing - list. Leaving the bridge and water behind, Fandral leads him to a tall building with a sloped roof, not unlike a church. As he’s ushered inside though, it becomes clear it’s less of a place of worship and more of a place of healing. It’s busy inside, but a purposeful calm sort of busy. A gaggle of soldiers stand in one corner; two of them have wounds to hands and arms but they look in good spirits. A woman with a young baby sits nearby, gently rocking the child back and forth. Two women in deep grey robes are crouched down and talking to a man who looks sweaty and pale, and as Clint limps forwards one of them looks over her shoulder and stands up.

“Welcome,” she says and then speaks some more. Clint grimaces and reaches for the Allspeak ball, pressing his fingers to the cool metal.

“Sorry, what?” he says.

“We’re expecting you,” she says. “Come.”

He’s led through to a smaller room. It’s darker in here; no windows to let in sunlight, only the flickering light from candles set into basins on the stone walls. The room is sparsely furnished; there is a single chair which Fandral immediately claims, and a long, wide bench in the centre of the room.

He barely has time to contemplate what it could be for when two more women enter the room, wearing matching healer’s robes and serious expressions. Armed with a charming smile, Fandral goes over to speak to them and then as one they all turn and look at Clint, who swallows hard and raises his hand in an almost wave.

“Uh, hi? I’m Clint?”

They don’t answer, just descend on him in a manner which is both efficient and terrifying. Clint finds himself divested of twirly-horn crutches and shoe, then unceremoniously pushed onto the long bench thingy. The moment he lies back it lights up from below, casting him in bright white light. He raises his hand to ask what the hell is happening, but one of the woman smacks his hand down and fixes him with a look which clearly says, _lie still and stop being a pain._

Fandral appears upside-down above him, smiling brightly. “Okay?” he mouths to Clint, and then is promptly smacked out of the way in turn. Clint snorts out a laugh and is pinned with another glare, so he holds his breath as best he can and stays very still.

Man, the medics at SHIELD haven’t got nothin’ on these guys.

He’s been there for a few minutes and is getting twitchy at being prone and vulnerable when suddenly there’s a blaze of gold light that makes him nearly jump out of his skin, and then above him appears - well, _him._ Him but made up of stars, shining gold beads of light. It’s amazing. He reaches up to touch but realises he probably shouldn’t, hastily bringing his hand back down out of smacking range.

 _I wish Bucky could see this,_ he thinks, and the beads of light flicker as he feels a wave of misery roll through him. He blinks hard, fiercely willing the feeling away.

“So what is this?” he calls out. “What’s going on?”

No-one answers him. The women work above him, prodding and poking the gold light, twisting and weaving it. He gives up on wondering and asking, instead lying back and watching them work.

It doesn’t feel right. There’s no Tony talking nineteen to the dozen, no Jarvis recording his vitals. There’s no Nat sneaking him food, no Steve looking exasperated and worried. No Arto sneaking in for hugs, no Bucky hovering by his side and refusing to leave.

 _That’s how it used to be,_ he tells himself, blinking up at the lights. They blur above him, doubling up. _Not anymore._

Now he’s started thinking, he can’t stop. The argument he had with Steve swims back into focus in his memory, the words sharp and bitter. Why hadn’t Steve understood that Clint couldn’t help? Why had Steve asked him to try and sort Arto out? Why couldn’t he just have left him _alone?_

Why had Steve just walked away, when he’d seemed so determined for Clint to get involved?

Fingers tap at the back of his hand; one of the women gestures for him to get up. As he does, holding a hand to his side, the golden light seems to settle back into him, leaving the room much darker than before. Fandral is there, passing back his crutches and tossing his shoe down in front of him. He stuffs his foot into it and turns towards the door, but one of the women stops him, gesturing for him to sit down.

“What?” he complains. “Can’t I go?”

No is apparently the answer. The women bustle around the space; one of them cleans down the bench while another stands at the desk, writing on a scroll. A man in similar grey robes comes in, has a brief conversation with one of the women and then departs again, returning a few moments later. In one hand he has a vial similar to the ones Clint drinks his painkillers from every morning . In the other is a saw.

“Wait, what’s the saw for?”

He hastily grabs for the Allspeak ball again. “Someone tell me why there is a saw in the room!”

Fandral grins at him. “They’re going to cut your leg off,” he says, and then starts to laugh at the horrified expression on Clint’s face. “I’m joking. Your leg has healed well, so they’re going to take that thing off of it.”

“What?” Clint looks down at his leg. “What do you mean, healed?”

“What do people on Midgard normally mean by healed?” Fandral says. “Fixed? No longer damaged? Unless you want to keep that gorgeous piece of decoration on your foot forever.”

“Yeah but how?”

“You’ve been drinking the elixirs given to you every morning, yes?”

Comprehension dawns. “They really fixed it that fast?” he scowls, reaching out to shove at Fandral’s shoulder. “You asshole, I thought they were going to cut off my leg.”

“No, your leg is safe today. As is your arm,” Fandral says. “Now which thing do you want removing first?”

Clint sticks out his arm without hesitating. The healers obviously don’t trust him to stay still, because two of them stand either side of him and hold his shoulder and arm steady, while the young man steps up with the saw in hand. Clint debates closing his eyes but having no hearing and no sight makes him feel way too vulnerable, so he just looks over he man shoulder as he takes to the cast with gusto. Once it’s cracked free his hand feels bizarrely light and he literally groans in relief, scratching at the back of his knuckles.

“Sweet freedom,” he says, and sees Fandral laughing. It feels nice to make someone laugh, he thinks. He couldn’t do that back home. There, he only lets people down.

They attack the cast on his foot with a similar approach and soon it’s also free. The air feels amazing on his skin, though there’s a grubby mark across the top of his foot and his whole lower leg looks a horrid purplish color. There’s a long scar straight down the front of his shin, too.

“That, we can’t do so much about,” one of the healers says apologetically. “Here. Take this.”

She hands him both the scroll she had been writing on and a vial. Clint looks up at her. “More painkillers?”

“No, this is for your soul,” the woman says. “The lights in the soul forge were not as bright as they should have been. This will help that.”

“What? There’s something wrong with my soul?” Clint asks, confused. “That - that thing told you that?”

“It told us many things,” the woman says. “Take the elixir, and find whatever it is that is making your heart so heavy. It is not good for someone to have such darkness in them.”

 _Oh Christ, they’re giving me Asgardian antidepressants,_ Clint thinks. He takes both scroll and vial, silently vowing to tip the contents down the first drain he comes across. With the items in his possession the healers apparently deem their job done, leaving the room without looking back. Clint turns to Fandral, who is waiting patiently by the door.

Clint sighs and pushes himself to his feet. His leg aches a little but feels a hundred times better than it did. He takes a tentative step, relieved when it holds his weight without any pain.

“Hang on,” he says, frowning down at his foot. “I can't go and have breakfast with royalty with only one shoe, can I?”

Fandral just shoves the door open and gestures with a flourish. “I think having one shoe should be the least of your worries,” he says cheerfully. “Come along, Mister Dark-Soul.”

 _Great._ Clint thinks wearily. _Mister Dark-Soul. That’s just great._

 

* * *

 

“That’s bad for you, you know.”

Bucky scratches at his eyebrow with his thumb, cigarette nestled between two fingers. “So is being your best friend,” he replies to Steve without turning to look at him. “You’ve taken at least twenty years off of my life alone.”

“Are you kidding me?” Steve says easily, coming to stand next to Bucky. “I’m a delight.”

“You jump out of helicopters for fun,” Bucky says. “You are terrible and I don't know how Tony does it.”

“Neither does Tony,” Steve says, and gestures to the bench. “Can I sit?”

Bucky nods and Steve slumps down onto the bench next to him. There are snowflakes in his hair and his nose is pink, eyes bright. He shoves his hands into his pockets, dipping his chin into the warmth of his scarf.

“I don’t like you being out here alone,” he says. “It’s too cold.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky says, taking a drag of the cigarette and gesturing up to the wooden roof above his head. “I’m sat under the cover.”

“Hmm,” Steve says, obviously not convinced. He stretches his leg out so his foot is outside of the cover, heel resting in the snow. “When you do think he’ll come home?”

Bucky shrugs. “I have no idea.”

“I think we should go and get him,” Steve says. “Arto’s still missing him.”

“Yeah, I know, but Art’s going to have to deal with it,” Bucky says shortly.

“But-”

“But nothin’, Steve,” Bucky snaps. “He’s your kid, not Clint’s, _you_ sort him out.”

There’s a strained beat of silence. “Wow, Buck. One of these days you might just tell me what you really think.”

Bucky huffs, flicking the end of his cigarette away into the snow and ignoring the reproachful look Steve sends him. “Clint loves that kid, you know that. But he’s not ours. So we don’t have to put him first. Clint usually does, you know he puts that kid first over and over, but this time he can’t and no-one is in any place to demand that he does.”

Surprisingly, Steve is silent, letting Bucky’s words hang there between them. After a long moment he groans and leans forwards, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. “You’re right,” he says. “I just forget - my world revolves around Arto some days-”

Bucky claps him on the shoulder. “I know, pal. I know.”

Steve sighs, lifting his head and rubbing at the back of his neck. “What is it about Clint that gets us all eating crazy when he gets hurt?”

“He’s the team's human heart,” Bucky says. “No-one gives a shit if me or you get hurt, we’re super-soldiers. And everyone else has a working sense of self-preservation.”

“You’re probably right,” Steve says absently, and opens his mouth to say more but stops, looking up instead. Bucky follows his gaze and spots Tony, pushing through the door to the roof garden and strolling over with his hands in his pockets.

“Christ, he’s not even-” Steve mutters, and then raises his voice. “Go and put a coat on!”

“I’m fine,” Tony says, ducking under the cover and shaking his head to get the snow from his hair. Steve rolls his eyes and takes his scarf off, looping it around Tony’s neck. Tony allows the gesture, holding onto the ends of the scarf and sending Bucky a _‘help me now’_ look. Bucky just shrugs back. It’s not like he can really stop Steve from doing what he wants, though Tony clearly believing that Bucky can is oddly comforting.

“You’ll regret being nice to me in about four seconds,” Tony says, sitting down next to Steve and shoving at him with his hip so Steve moves up. “Because it’ll take me about four seconds to tell you that I got Jarvis to play me back the audio of your argument with Clint.”

“You did _what?_ ”

“Hear me out,” Tony says, holding up a placating hand.

“You said you wouldn’t do that ever again!”

“Extreme circumstances, beloved,” Tony says. “See, I couldn't work out why Clint left.”

“Because he was hurting, moron,” Bucky says impatiently. “Come on, you know about the monitoring thing-”

“Monitoring argument later,” Tony says impatiently. “And no, you’re wrong. When Clint gets hurt what does he usually do? What’s the routine, what’s the pattern?”

Bucky and Steve look at each other nonplussed. “Bitches and moans?” Bucky suggests.

“Lies low in his room until he’s better?” Steve tries.

“Exactly,” Tony says, pointing at Steve. “Well, nearly exactly. He lies low with Buckaroo. He lets Bucky do the whole mother hen routine and doesn’t try and escape. So why, this time, has he suddenly upped and left? He was with Bucky, the routine was the same.”

“Until Arto came and kicked the shit out of me?” Bucky says.

Tony grimaces. “Yeah, I thought it was that too, but it didn’t feel right. Clint would never leave Arto. Getting them two apart is like separating Steve from his shield.”

“I let Bucky have the shield.”

Tony screws his eyes shut for a moment. “Okay, either a bad choice of metaphor or a perfect yet more complex one. Let me get back to you on that. Okay, it’s like separating me from my armor. So it doesn’t make sense.”

“He needed a break.”

“He could have had a break by getting Jarvis to lock the doors,” Tony says dismissively. “Anyway, stop guessing, I worked it out.”

He pulls his phone from his pocket and Steve glares at him.

“If you’re about to play a recording, so help me.”

“I am and I’m not even sorry,” Tony says. “Okay, we worked out why Clint didn’t want to wear the hearing aids, right? Same reason he already knows sign language?”

Bucky’s breath catches in his chest. “Nat told you.”

“We guessed,” Steve said apologetically. “And we asked her about it, and she didn’t deny it.”

“Dammit, Nat,” Bucky says. “That wasn’t her secret to tell.”

“It wasn’t difficult,” Tony shrugs, thumb tapping at the screen of his phone. “And anyway, Arto told Steve what you told him. About the grown-ups who weren’t so nice to Clint and who hurt his ears?”

“Shit,” Bucky says. “Should have seen that coming.”

“Yeah, it’s like you should have expected the emotionally malfunctioning eleven year old to keep your secret,” Tony says.

“He’s not a robot,” Steve says, pinching the bridge of his nose and clearly despairing.

“Sorry, I thought malfunctioning sounded better than maladaptive,” Tony says. “No? Just me? Alright then, moving on.”

He holds up his phone and immediately Clint’s voice rings out, as clearly as if he was sitting right there with them, followed by Steve’s angry tones.

_“I’m deaf. I’m not much fucking use to you like this!”_

_“Which is why I need you to put the damn hearing aids in and come and help me.”_

Steve swallows hard, probably thinking of Bucky’s mild telling off of a few minutes ago. Bucky reaches out to squeeze his shoulder as Nat’s voice joins the recording.

_“Steve’s right. We need you here. Arto won’t forgive Bucky unless you tell him that it’s not Bucky’s fault.”_

_“I can’t.”_

_“Stop saying that! You are an Avenger, we need you-"_

_"I’m not. I’m not an Avenger anymore. Not now. I'm handing in my ID, and my pass. I'm not part of the team anymore.”_

_“You’re not making that call.”_  
  
_“I can make my own damn decisions. You’re not my fucking dad, you don’t get to tell me what to do.”_

There’s a pause and for a moment Bucky thinks it’s over, but Tony is still holding up the phone, waiting. Bucky has to clench his jaw tightly, stomach feeling all tied up in a knot. God, he’d wondered what had been said between Steve and Clint but he’d no idea it was this bad. He swallows hard, just as Steve’s final words ring out, hard and cutting.

_“Fine. Do what you fucking want.”_

Tony lowers his phone, looking grave. Steve shakes his head as if he can shake off the echo of the words. “I didn’t mean for him to go,” he says. “I didn’t-”

“We know,” Tony says, reaching for his hand, pulling it up to his mouth and kissing Steve’s knuckles. “But missing piece of the puzzle is right there. Bigger daddy issues than anticipated, and boy I know I’m one to talk.”

“What?” Steve says, incredulous. “You think this is about - you really think that’s it?”

Bucky’s mind is going a thousand miles an hour, moving past the issues he’s previously mulled over. Maybe Tony’s right, maybe it’s not just about Steve putting Arto-pressure onto Clint. “He thinks you gave up on him,” he mutters distractedly. “He - oh god damn it, Steve. You’re his goddamn hero and he thinks you gave up on him.”

Steve looks from Tony to Bucky. “I didn’t, he was just - he told me he was handing in his ID! He was _quitting_ , what was I meant to do with that?!”

“Steve, calm down,” Tony says.

“Like hell I will!” Steve rants, getting up and stalking away. Bucky watches him step out into the snow and pulls his cigarettes out of his pocket,  slipping one between his lips as Steve carries on yelling. “Look what I’ve managed to do - Bucky, will you cut that shit out!”

Bucky pauses, fingers wrapped around his lighter. He lifts an eyebrow, which he thinks says enough.

Tony’s mouth twitches. “You’re not his dad, you don’t get to tell him what to do.”

Bucky makes a noise of protest, screwing his face up. “Really, Stark?”

“You are not funny,” Steve tells Tony flatly, but he’s stopped yelling at least.  

“I am both hilarious and a genius,” Tony says. “And I think what has happened, is that while Clint was feeling super-depressed about losing his hearing, you accidentally hit him right where it hurt.”

Steve’s mouth falls open. “Please tell me Clint doesn’t actually think I’m his Dad.”

“No,” Bucky says, as Tony seesaws his hand. “Tony, stop it. No, he doesn’t. He just - if you think about it, you’re his role model.”

Steve shakes his head. “He’s got you.”

“That’s sick, Steve,” Tony says. “Barnes can’t be his dad, they’re sleeping together.”

“Tony, be helpful or go away,” Steve says through gritted teeth and Tony mimes zipping his lips together. Steve huffs but steps back under the cover, looking at Tony for a moment before shrugging his coat off and tossing it at him.

“So take a Hawkeye who is having horrendous parental abuse flashbacks,” Tony says, slipping his arms into Steve’s coat. “And then add his role-model slash father-figure walking out on him.”

“I did not,” Steve says angrily. “He was the one quitting, I didn’t put him in that position.”

“I never said it was rational, but that’s the way he might have perceived it,” Tony says. “How am I doing, Barnes? You’re the Barton whisperer around here.”

“I think you might be right,” Bucky admits. “How the fuck did you get so astute, anyway? You spend more time with robots than people.”

“I know things,” Tony shrugs. “Situation was upsetting Arto, so I decided to pay attention to feelings and things.” He holds out a hand; Steve takes it immediately and lets himself be reeled back in, sitting back down between Bucky and Tony.

“Shall I just adopt Clint too?” he asks, and Tony snorts with laughter.

“No, because then when I marry him you’ll be my father-in-law and that’s just weird,” Bucky says, and takes a moment to sit back and enjoy the sight of both Steve Rogers and Tony Stark rendered utterly speechless.

  

* * *

 

Frigga is not there when Clint arrives for breakfast; a stunningly beautiful woman shows him to a small yet opulent room, which has a huge archway in place of a fourth wall. Through the open space he can see the lake and the glittering form of the bifrost. Closer to him, there are gold flowers woven around the edge of the archway, their petals curling ever-so slightly in and out, almost like they’re breathing. Every so often small, light green birds flit around the flowers but they’re chased off by the ravens which perch near the archway, almost like they’re on guard.

The table he’s sat it seems too big for just two, and there’s enough food to feed Thor _and_ Steve. Fresh fruit, platters of cold meats and more types of bread than he knew existed. It‘s making his stomach roil just looking at it, considering he’s not eaten properly in days. To distract himself, he watches the turf war between the birds, wondering whether it’s bravery or stupidity that keeps the much smaller green birds coming back.

Feeling awkward and like he’s maybe in the wrong place, he looks around and just about jumps out of his skin as he sees Frigga standing there by the inner door, quietly watching him. This time he manages to bite back the curse, resisting the urge to ask her where she gets off on lurking and watching.

“Good morning.” She walks forwards and takes a seat; almost immediately one of the ravens launches itself from its perch and onto the back of her chair. She reaches up to gently pet its feathers; Clint watches, fascinated, as it rubs its head against her fingers like a cat would and then hops away, turning its back on them and preening itself.

Frigga holds her hand out towards him; he’s momentarily confused for a moment before he remembers the Allspeak ball. He points to it and she nods, so he hands it over. She wraps her hands around it for a moment, then sets it on the table between them, and when she speaks again the words appear without Clint having to hold on to the ball.

“I trust the Healers treated you well,” she says, gesturing to the scroll and vial that sit next to his plate.

Clint nods, unsure of what to say. “The uh, elixirs? They fixed my leg and my wrist. Yeah. So thank you for that.”

She waves away his thanks like it’s nothing, reaching for a silver jug and pouring them both a drink. “You’re probably wondering if we could have healed your ears, too?”

“Wait - what? You could fix my ears?”

She sips at her drink, seeming unconcerned. “You don’t need healing for your ears, you will be wearing the devices that your friend made for you when you return home.”

Clint just gapes at her. “Can you see the future or something?”

“Or something,” Frigga says with a smile “Not always, and not often.”

Clint looks down at goblet and then back up. “You - I return home?”

“Of course,” Frigga says, looking puzzled. “Did you expect to stay here forever?”

Clint shrugs, reaching forwards to help himself to a twist of bread. Frigga passes him over a small pot, nodding encouragingly. “Honey,” she tells him, and he takes it from her because a voice in his head that sounds like Steve tells him it would be rude not to. She watches him for a moment, making his hands feel clumsy and uncoordinated under the scrutiny. They spend a few minutes in silence, eating and drinking.

“You’re not used to talking about your feelings, are you?”

“No,” Clint admits. “I do with Bucky, sometimes. I dunno. Never seems important.”

“You are important,” she says quite simply, and Clint has to look away.

“Nah.”

More golden words drift up from the Allspeak ball and he looks at them, a little afraid of what they might say.

“I don’t know which is worse, a man who thinks too much of himself or a man who thinks too little.”

Clint's mouth hitches tiredly. “I know a few guys who are the former.”

“Don’t we all,” Frigga replies. “I don’t think that’s you, though.”

Clint shrugs again. “I,” he begins, wondering why the hell he’s even _considering_ saying it. “I never had any good from talking about feelings. Wasn't encouraged.”

“By who?”

“My dad, I guess,” Clint says, looking fixedly at his plate.

“Fathers seem to have an unparallelled way of leaving lasting impressions on their children,” Frigga says. “One can only hope that the impression is favorable. I think for my boys, one was and one was not.”

“Thor turned out okay,” he says.

“As did you,” she shoots back, and he feels his face going pink. He picks up the remainder of his bread and shoves it into his mouth to avoid talking; not the most subtle tactic but definitely efficient. He does it a lot back home with Bucky, when Bucky is talking shit and expecting him to respond.

Oh man, if he could just stop thinking about Bucky for ten seconds, it would be super helpful.

“May I ask,” Frigga says, and Clint somehow knows that he’ll answer whatever she wants him to. “Why you are so uncertain about returning home?”

Well, might as well go all in now he’s started, he thinks. And somehow, it feels safe here. “I quit,” Clint says. “As an Avenger. Steve said I could do what I wanted. So, I left. I don’t think I’ll be welcomed back with open arms.”

Frigga hums at that, reaching for a piece of fruit that Clint has never seen the likeness of before. She takes her time in peeling it, pulling out a pale pink slice and popping it into her mouth, swallowing before speaking again.

“You know, Thor left us once,” she says, somewhat sadly. “He and his father argued, by Valhalla they could argue some days. And one of those days, the fight became more than could be fixed in a single day, or by a single person. So, Thor left. He was sent away from his home.”

Clint stays very quiet, wondering where this is going.

“His father made it so that Thor could not return home until he had learned something true about himself,” Frigga continues. “I feel that maybe once you learn something about yourself, the journey home will be much easier for you.”

“What, Steve is my Dad in this metaphor?” Clint asks skeptically. “No thanks.”

Frigga just smiles again, another of those slow, maddening smiles that makes her look like she knows more than she’s letting on. Considering she’s just told him that she can pretty much see the goddamn future, maybe she’s earned that look. But Steve as a metaphorical dad? No thanks. Even as he dismisses the notion, he thinks back to their argument, what he’d shouted at Steve. Hot embarrassment curls in the pit of his belly alongside the memory of feeling abandoned, and he quickly looks away and changes the subject.

“What else is in my future then?”

“Love,” Frigga says. “And you’ll find in time that you don’t need to search for a perfect father-figure in your own life. You’ll become that very person you’ve been looking for.”

“I’ll become my own father figure?” Clint echoes, thoroughly confused, re-reading the words as they hover above the Allspeak ball. “How is that - wait, _what?_ ”

Frigga actually laughs, warm and amused. “Would you like to know if it will be a boy or a girl?”

“Fwat?” Clint manages to say.

“I’m sorry, I should not tease,” Frigga says. “I do not know that much detail. Only the outlines, as it were.”

“But - I’m with-” Clint begins, and then dread starts to creep into the pit of his stomach. “No,” he says. “I don’t want to be with anyone but Bucky.”

“Then why are you here?” Frigga asks him simply, but Clint is barely paying attention, his mind caught on the thought of being without Bucky, the thought pinned in place as if with an arrow.

“Bucky leaves me, doesn’t he,” Clint says. “He’s going to leave.”

Warm fingers touch his and he jumps. Frigga is looking at him kindly yet somehow sadly, folding his fingers up in hers. “Your mind goes to the darkest places,” she says. “Hush. No more fretting over the future. I should never have spoken.”

“Tell me,” Clint insists. “I can’t do this - I can’t do this without him.”

Frigga almost-smiles. “If you know that is true, why are you even wondering who you will build your own family with? If you truly know that you cannot be without him, how can it possibly happen with anyone else?”

Clint stares at the words until they fade. “Things are going to get better, right?”

“Of course they are,” Frigga says gently. “I think you just need to work out how to let that happen.”

Clint nods almost absently, and then suddenly becomes very self-conscious. He sits back and thankfully Frigga lets go of his hand, letting him pick up his goblet and take a long drink. “Why are you helping me?” he asks, staring at the water in his goblet. “I’m just a piece of trash ex-carnie who ended up in the right place at the right time and accidentally became an Avenger.”

“I see glimpses of futures,” Frigga says. “Fate, if you will. And sometimes I can sense when someone is intricately linked to the fate of those around them, acting almost as convergence of several threads of fate. Now, I am not supposed to meddle with fate, merely observe it. But often these people who form this... meeting point, are quite interesting individuals.”

She lifts her brows at him. “Or maybe I just wanted to keep an eye on the man I found climbing all over my throne in the feasting hall.”

“Can we go with that one? The other one makes me sound more important than I am.”

“One day, you will stop putting yourself down. You are important in your own right, and you are important in that you are a nexus,” she says. “A meeting point. A tie. You dipping into the lives of others has changed the entire world for the better.”

Clint shakes his head. “I’m not.”

“James Barnes,” Frigga says. “Natasha Romanov. Arto Rogers. Steve Rogers. Think of your impact on those individuals, and then think of what they in turn have been able to achieve.”

“I’m not,” Clint repeats, but his throat is going tight and he suddenly feels like it’s all too much. Hearing the names of the people he’s supposedly important to, all the people he left behind, who left him behind-

He’s horrified to feel tears threatening. He opens his mouth to say something else, to brush it off, but he can’t. It catches in his chest and then he’s crying, hitching sobs that he can't hold back. He’s mortified, trying to get up out of his chair and get the hell out of there, but before he knows it Frigga is right there next to him. She’s sitting on the arm of his chair and gently pulling him in, letting him bury his face in her side and cry, his hands still half covering his face.

He gives up and just slumps into her hold, letting her set a gentle hand on the back of his head.

“I can't do this. I don’t want to be deaf again,” he chokes out. “I can’t, and Bucky was just trying to help, and Tony, and Steve - I let Steve down, I couldn’t help and he walked out on me-”

He doesn’t know if she replies to him, but her hold doesn’t waver. Once the words about Steve are out he finds that he can't form any more, and just gives up in favor of crying. Thankfully, his tears don’t last long, and he’s soon pulling back and feeling a growing sense of panic and disbelief because he just cried all over the Queen of goddamn Asgard. Shit, there's tears all over her dress, her dress that is probably worth more than the whole of New York.

“I’m such an idiot,” he mutters, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “God, I’m so sorry.”

She takes his head in her hands and makes him look up at her with a strength that easily surpasses his own. “Hush,” she says. “You need to mourn what you have lost, and tears are part of that. Then you need to move on.”

He swallows hard. “Mourn?”

“Yes,” she replies. “And then move on.”

She lets go of him and steps back, sinking to her knees right there on the floor beside his chair. “You are not alone,” she says, and then reaches for the vial that the healers gave him. She holds it up between them, it's dark surface glinting in the light like obsidian. “And you are not without help.”

He nods dumbly, staring at the vial. He senses she's giving him a choice here, pointing out his options but leaving it entirely up to him. He stares at it for so long that it blurs. Leaving it will mean more of the same, long days alone and not having to face up to anything that has happened. Not having to anticipate being let down, not having to deal with others in his newly deaf form. Taking it means facing up to everything, accepting everything that has happened and fixing the mess he's made.

He takes the vial, pulling the cork from the top and then swallowing the contents without argument. It tastes like syrup, sickly and sweet but with an aftertaste that is oddly fresh.

“There,” she says, looking quietly yet unmistakably proud. “Now we begin.”

He takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he mumbles, and she smiles.


	6. Chapter 6

“Okay, but I don’t get it,” Arto says, and Bucky rolls his head sideways to look at him. Arto’s leaning back against the opposite end of the couch, feet tucked up under him and Clint’s purple blanket around his shoulders. He’s frowning as he tips his head back and tries to get the end of a spaghetti stand into his mouth. It’s swaying back and forth like it’s alive, threatening to drip marinara sauce all over his chin.

“Don’t get spaghetti?” Bucky asks, digging his fork into his own bowl, twisting it around slowly.

Arto makes a negative, _‘no Bucky you’re being stupid’_ sound as he manages to suck the end of the spaghetti into his mouth. He lets go of the end that's in his fingers and Bucky watches with exasperation as it flops down to leave sauce both Arto’s chin and clean T-shirt. Arto licks the ends of his fingers clean and then turns to wipe the rest against a cushion.

“Hey,” Bucky protests, shoving at Arto with his knee. “This isn't the pit you call a bedroom, you know.”

“Sorry,” Arto says, not looking it. He does finish wiping his knuckles on his shirt rather than the furniture though, so that’s something. “But I don’t get it. Why does everyone think Maleficent is bad? It wasn't her fault.”

Bucky hums at that. “No,” he says. “But she does do bad shit.”

“It wasn't her fault!” Arto repeats, getting louder and edging towards indignant.

“No-one made her curse Aurora,” Bucky reminds him and Arto pauses, turning to scowl at the TV.

“Yeah but it wasn't her fault,” he repeats stubbornly. He jams the ends of his fingers into his mouth and then pulls them out, remembering that he’s supposed to be trying to kick the habit of chewing on them. He curls his fingers over, hands clenched into fists as he frowns at the film.

Bucky watches him for a moment, trying to think. Arto’s been grumpy as all hell for the past two days; Steve has been called away on a mission and even though it was only scheduled to be thirty-two hours, Arto had not been happy to see him go. Normally Clint would be the one to step in and make him feel better, but unfortunately Clint’s copy of _‘How to deal with Arto Rogers’_ is stored in his brain and his brain only. Probably between his mental copy of _‘how to calculate wind shear velocity without using numbers’_ and _‘pizza toppings of continental Europe.’_

 _Maybe it’s not that bad,_ Bucky concedes. Tony has his own copy of the Arto-guide, and he always steps up admirably to deal with Arto, even when everyone else seems tapped. 

Arto leans over to pick another piece of spaghetti out of his bowl, but seems to give up on the idea of eating before he can shove it into his mouth. He drops it back down and then clambers off of the sofa, walking away. Bucky watches him go, rubbing at his forehead and cursing internally. He’s no good at this shit. Kids are like delicate diplomacy and SHIELD agents who try and put limits on the weapons he’s allowed to take on missions; things he just cannot be dealing with.

He sighs, setting his own bowl aside. Tony is neck-deep in work, Clint is nowhere and Steve is twelve hours away from home. Bucky has a terrible feeling that it’s going to feel more like twelve days.

He stands up, sighing at the marinara-stained cushion and wondering if he can be bothered to take it down to the laundry. He swipes up the remote and turns the TV off, pulling his phone out of his pocket with the other. He hits Tony’s speed-dial and jams the phone between his cheek and shoulder, setting about stripping the cover off the cushion.

“What?” Tony answers the phone, sounding mildly annoyed and fully distracted. “Did you two fight?”

“No, but he’s grumpy and left halfway through the film,” Bucky says. “Predicting shouting and tantrum at some point in the next half hour.”

“Did you tell him to remember the bolt-hole?”

“No, he walked off before-”

Bucky abruptly stops as the door to his and Clint’s apartment opens without warning. Arto steps in, glancing to the TV and looking confused. 

“Why did you turn it off?”

“Okay never mind, he came back,” Bucky says, and hangs up on Tony, throwing the phone aside. “I thought you’d had enough,” he tells Arto cautiously.

Arto shakes his head and holds up a bottle of bright blue nail-polish. “Went to get this.”

Bucky narrows his eyes slightly. “Did you even ask Lilya before you took it?”

“This one’s mine,” Arto says with a huff, walking back over and throwing himself on the couch, wriggling back into the corner and sticking his feet out. “Natasha got me it, I swear.”

“Alright,” Bucky says and resumes the film. The TV flares to life just in time to show them the baby princess crawling towards the edge of the cliff, Maleficent's turmoil clearly written all over her face. Bucky looks away, thinking that maybe this film wasn’t the best choice. Whether he means it’s not the best choice for Arto or not the best choice for him...well, he can work that out later.

He flops back down on the couch, watching as Arto unscrews the nail-polish. He balances the tub on the arm of the couch and then goes to start painting his own nails, though he only gets as far as dabbing the brush against his thumbnail before his face is crumpling.

“I can’t properly do it myself.”

Shifting so he’s sat on the couch with one foot on the cushions and a knee raised up in front of him, Bucky holds his hands out without saying anything, and Arto passes him the brush and bottle. He shifts so he’s cross legged and sets a hand on Bucky’s raised knee.

“I don’t chew them when they’re painted,” Arto explains.

Bucky nods. “Sure, but you don’t need a reason for me, buddy.”

“I know,” Arto says, watching as Bucky gently strokes the brush over the nail of his forefinger, his metal hand perfectly steady. “Do you like talking to me?”

It comes out of nowhere and Bucky feels - well, not a sense of alarm exactly, but he feels himself mentally bracing himself as the conversation turns. Arto is less sensitive than both of his parents combined, some days. “Sure,” he says. “I like you a lot when we get on.”

 _When you’re not being an asshole to me,_ he mentally adds, and he’s not good with kids but he knows it doesn’t need to be said out loud.

“Clint told me that the same people that hurt me hurt you too,” Arto says, eyes fixed on his nails. Bucky feels himself go tense, hands stilling for a moment before he can make them move again.

“When did he tell you that?”

“Ages ago,” Arto shrugs, looking at the television. “Do you think if Steve hadn’t found me, I’d be bad?”

Oh fucking christ. Bucky swears it feels like being knifed, a sharp pain in his side that’s piercing and raw and makes him feel like punching something.

“No,” he says as he moves onto the next finger, carefully stroking on the blue polish. He’s never done this before but he doesn’t think he’s doing too bad. A bit more practice and he can probably jack in the guns and do this for a career instead. “I think you’d have turned out good no matter what.”

“I feel bad sometimes,” Arto says. “Like Maleficent.”

“Yeah, well when bad things happen to you, it’s hard not to feel bad some days,” Bucky says. “You want to turn the film off?”

“No,” Arto says, his fingers pressing slightly against Bucky’s denim-covered knee. “Do you still feel bad?”

“Sometimes,” Bucky says without pause. “It gets easier, though. It’s easier to deal with feeling bad.”

“It wasn’t the same doctors that hurt you and me, was it?”

“No,” Bucky says quietly. “Different ones.”

Arto blinks slowly. “Were the people who hurt Clint doctors?”

Bucky leans forwards to blow across Arto’s nails, buying himself a few seconds to think about what to say. He hasn't lied to Arto so far during this whole mess and he’s not about to start now.

“No,” he says. “And I'm not shutting you down, I promise, you're allowed to ask, but how about we don’t talk about it while he’s not here? I don’t think that’s fair. Here, other hand. Don’t get that on my cushions.”

Arto swaps hands obediently, holding the other one and looking at his newly-blue nails. “The cushions are covered in sauce anyway.”

“Doesn’t mean I want ‘em blue as well,” Bucky says mock-sternly, and Arto starts to laugh.

“You’re good,” he says quietly to Bucky, and Bucky’s mouth hitches in a tired smile.

“Thanks. You’re good too.”

“Will you marry Clint when he comes back?”

Now _that_ makes Bucky’s hand jolt. He accidentally smudges blue over Arto’s finger, and Arto makes a noise of protest that doesn’t quite mask Bucky’s curse.

“Bucky!”

“Well, you were the one who - jesus, kid. You got your dads married, isn’t that enough?” Bucky says, heart suddenly beating off-rhythm in his chest. He scrapes at the blue on Arto’s finger with his own nail, but it leaves a smudge anyway.

Arto - the little shit - is actually grinning, like it’s hilarious. “You could,” he says as Bucky sets about his nails again.

“Yeah I know I could, doesn’t mean I’m gonna,” Bucky says, trying to salvage what he can of the messed up finger. “Me asking him to marry me won’t get him home, you know.”

Arto’s face falls, and Bucky realises that’s _exactly_ what Arto had been thinking. “You wonderful little weirdo,” Bucky sighs. “He’ll come home when he’s ready.”

“Steve doesn’t want him to come home.”

“He does,” Bucky assures him. “He’s just all upset about it too. He feels like Clint left him, Clint feels like Steve is cross at him...you know what, forget what I’m saying. It’ll work out. It’ll just take time.”

“Time is shit,” Arto says, and Bucky finds himself nodding.

“Yeah, it can be,” he says, and then nudges Arto with his knee. “You wouldn’t let me marry Clint anyway. You’d get all jealous and beat me up.”

Arto actually understands the joke - as poorly pitched as it is - and pulls a face. “Might beat you up anyway,” he says and then sticks his tongue out at Bucky.

“Whatever, Short-Round,” Bucky says, but when he smiles weakly at Arto, Arto smiles back like he knows exactly how Bucky feels.

The moment is cut short by Bucky’s phone buzzing against his thigh. He pulls it out of his pocket, half-anticipating it being Tony checking in on him and Arto, but unfortunately it’s not. He glares half-heartedly at the word SHIELD and then answers it, hoping he sounds as unwilling and uncooperative as he feels.

“What.”

“Good afternoon to you to Agent Barnes,” Fury says, sounding supremely unconcerned. “Pack your favourite sharp toys, you’re going to Atlanta.”

“Can’t,” Bucky says. “I hate Atlanta and I’m busy babysitting.”

“I’m not a baby!” Arto protests, but Bucky ignores him.

“Critical package missing from the CDC and in the hands of AIM, we need the package intercepting,” Fury says. “I’m sending you as a one-man unit before I have to send anything more conspicuous.”

“Package?” Bucky asks wearily, rubbing at his brow.

“Classified,” Fury says. “I’ll brief you when you’re here. Come to headquarters and we'll take it from there.”

“Fine,” Bucky says, and hangs up. He sighs, looks over at Arto. “I gotta go to work,” he says, and Arto's mouth turns down but he nods.

“Can you finish my nails first?”

Bucky acquiesces, quickly finishing up the last few nails then capping the bottle, setting it on the arm of the couch. “Come on then, out,” he says. “I’m locking up.”

Arto doesn’t say anything, just rolls off the couch and follows Bucky out of the room, holding his hands out in front of him with his fingers spread wide. Bucky locks up and pauses, because Arto is just standing there next to him and not making any effort to go anywhere.

“Where are you going then?” he prompts. “Tony?”

“With you until you go,” Arto says, staring at his hands. “You’ll come back, right?”

And Arto has never cared about Bucky coming and going before, and Bucky feels a stab of annoyance at Clint as Arto looks up at him, expression worried. It’s Clint’s disappearing act that has put Arto in this uneasy position, and that’s not fair. But on the other side of the story, Arto wouldn’t give a shit about Bucky if all this hadn’t gone down. Swings and roundabouts, really. 

“Alright, but i’m going into the Locker and if you touch anything I’ll tell Steve,” he says, walking away with Arto at his side.  

“I won’t, I’m not dumb,” Arto says. “Steve’ll be cross if I touch anything in there.”

“Yes, yes he will,” Bucky says with a snort. He falls silent but Arto doesn’t seem to mind; he just follows, alternating between watching Bucky and carefully regarding his nails, flexing his fingers every so often.

“Alright,” Bucky says when he’s suited up and got everything he needs in his bag. “Coming down to the garage?”

“Yeah,” Arto says, and then, “It’s swimming on Thursday. Who’s going to take me?”

“Steve, probably,” Bucky shrugs, because how the fuck is he supposed to know? “Tony?”

“Tony doesn’t like swimming,” Arto says. “Will you come?”

“If I’m back, I guess,” Bucky ventures, even though getting his arm full of chlorinated water is not his favourite pastime. “Natasha can swim, ask her.”

Arto struggles with something for a moment, internal conflict played out so obviously over his face. Bucky doesn’t pry, and Arto eventually seems to work it out, expression smoothing over as he follows Bucky down to the garage. He walks so close to Bucky that there’s a danger that he’s going to trip over the kid, but he doesn’t really mind. It feels...well, he doesn't know, but it _does_ suddenly get him thinking of what it would be like if it wasn’t Arto next to him - more specifically, if it were someone that belonged to _him_. What would it be like to go on missions and have to say goodbye to _them?_

It’s a strange thought, crystal clear in some places and blurry in others. He can see Clint, unmistakable in purple. He can see the room behind them, not the tower but somewhere new. The figure in Clint’s arms is indistinct, small and vulnerable and with dark hair like his, arms wound around Clint’s neck as Bucky pulls them both close.

It steals Bucky’s breath away.

“Bucky?”

He blinks and of course it’s Arto there, blond and so like Steve it makes his head ache, frowning at him just like his dad does. “I’m okay,” Bucky says, feeling all off-balance. Jesus, it was only like twenty minutes ago when he was vehemently thinking that dealing with small children was something he could not and would not do. God, he wants Clint back so badly he feels like he could die with it. “I’ll see you when I get back, Short Round.”

“Yeah,” Arto says, and Bucky knows that he’s trying to sound tougher than he feels. “You better.”

 

* * *

 

 

The mission is pretty much a milk-run, and it allows Bucky to get out of his own head for a while, away from those weird intrusive notions about _Clint_ and _family_. The goons in charge of protecting the biological weapon that had been stolen from the CDC vaults seemed to think that their cover was undetectable, and were astonishingly blasé about security. It takes minimal effort and thirty-three and a half hours, and then Bucky is wandering back into SHIELD with the package in hand.

“And you’re welcome,” Bucky says, dropping the neatly wrapped box onto Fury’s desk with a thud. “No, I haven’t tried to open it or copy it or send samples to Stark.”

“I wasn’t even going to ask,” Fury says, picking up the box and examining the brown-paper wrapping. He looks pleased, which is something he rarely does in Bucky's presence. Must be a miracle. “Any casualties?”

“The tyre of the cruiser they were driving?” Bucky says. “And I broke my third-favourite knife.”

“File an expenses report,” Fury tells him. “And no, you cannot claim extra for emotional attachment to weapons.”

“Ha, I told Clint you’d read that,” Bucky grins, and the salutes sloppily. “Permission to go home, Sir?”

Instead of saying yes, Fury stands and looks at him somewhat seriously. “Have you heard from Barton?”

“Uh, does that translate as yes, you are dismissed?” Bucky asks, evading the question.

“Is this you refusing to answer my questions?”

“No, I haven’t, alright?” Bucky says, somewhat impatient. “He’s on medical leave with the fancy Healers in Asgard. Thor’s with him. He’ll be fine.”

Fury turns to look out of the window as if Bucky is boring him. Well screw that guy, he’s the one who asked.

“Message received. Dismissed.”

Bucky is out of the door before Fury can change his mind, heading to get changed and log his time before leaving. He’ll get a pretty hefty amount of hazard pay for this one, considering the cargo he was carrying, and he leaves with the satisfaction of a job well done. It’s almost enough to get him over the loss of his third-best knife.

He’s utterly starving and doesn’t feel like driving his bike back to New York on an empty stomach, so decides to risk it and wander into DC proper to find something to eat. He leaves the bike parked on the street and goes to grab a burger or four – eating pizza just seems wrong without Clint here, even if Clint is the one that left, so it probably serve him right if Bucky got pizza without him.

 _Wonder if he’s found pizza on Asgard,_ Bucky thinks absently, when out of the corner of his eye he catches sight of something shiny. His feet have stopped before his brain catches up, going through _‘shiny, jewellery, rings,'_ and all the way to, _'e_ _ngagement rings, marriage, Clint.’_ It’s embarrassing really, how long it takes him to connect the dots and understand why he’s stopped. 

Before he can second guess himself, he’s walking closer, licking burger grease off his metal thumb and balling up the wrapper. He’d always joked back in the day about buying Evie O'Halloran a diamond ring – _the biggest you’d ever seen Steve, she’ll have to hire someone to hold her hand up for her, won’t be able to hail a cab_ – despite the fact she was eleven years older than him and very much in love with her lawyer boyfriend. Yeah, she’d have loved something huge and shiny, but he doubts Clint would appreciate the bling as much.

 _You never know,_ a voice in his head says. Clint is a bit of a magpie, really – bringing all sorts of crap back home with him after missions. He’s still got that sparkly, amethyst-type rock from Wakanda stashed on the shelf in their bedroom, right next to the velociraptor skull from the Savage Lands. Maybe a bit of spectacular shine would be right up Clint’s street after all.

Maybe he’d just buy him a pop ring from Walmart instead. Or fight Arto for the decoder ring in his cereal.

 _You’re turning into a sap,_ he tells himself matter-of-factly, turning and tossing the wrapper into a trash-can. The goddamn Winter Soldier thinking about engagement rings, who is he kidding? He narrows his eyes at the window display, wondering what sort of price people these days shell out for things like engagement rings. Tony and Steve hadn’t even bothered with engagement rings, just celebratory sex and lots of arguing about suitable wedding attire and venues. They do have gold wedding rings though, simple and unfussy because Steve had won that particular argument.

Bucky takes another step. Can’t hurt to look, right? And if anyone recognises him or says anything about it, he still has his second-favourite knife in his boot.

 

* * *

 

 

Two weeks to the day since he arrived in Asgard, and Clint wakes in tears.

He doesn’t even know why, but the moment he opens his eyes it feels like his heart is breaking. Pressing the back of his hand across his mouth, he struggles into a sitting position and tries to reign it all in, gasping in hitching breaths and feeling - well,  _everything_. It’s the pieces of him that desperately want his hearing to come back, the scared parts that don’t think they can deal with being deaf. It’s the part that screams with guilt for leaving Arto behind without even saying goodbye, it’s the part of him that needs to know Steve doesn’t hate him, the part that misses Bucky so much that he could choke on it-

It’s _everything._

“Fuck,” he gets out, grating and raw. “Fuck, stop it. Just stop.”

His feelings aren’t listening, because they do exactly the opposite of stopping. It forces Clint up out of his tangled nest of blankets, colt-like on his newly healed leg. He makes an aggrieved noise in the back of his throat, walking unsteadily over to the window and pushing through the forcefield without pause. The cold hits him like a wake-up call, and he breathes in deep, feeling the bite of it in his lungs and the tear-tracks on his face.

“Breathe,” he tells himself, gripping onto the balustrade so tightly his knuckles go white. “Wow. Okay. Breathe.”

It’s just what he used to say to Bucky, when Bucky was so overcome with everything that he was trying to climb out of the damn windows. _It’s too much,_ Bucky had sobbed, back when he still had his long hair and Hydra lingering under his every thought. _I feel too much, I don’t want to feel all this._

“Clint?”

From behind him, he hears a deep voice, edged with concern. He hastily wipes his eyes on the back of his hand and tries to clear his throat, attempting to seem calm and collected.

“Yeah?” he calls, and curses at the way his voice sounds weak and shaky. “Yeah,” he calls again, more forcefully, and then Thor appears, striding through the forcefield. He looks Clint over but doesn’t comment, just stands next to him and leans on the balustrade, gazing out over the water.

Eventually he speaks, but standing side-on, Clint can’t lip read him. He reaches out and taps Thor’s arm and then points to his mouth, and without comment Thor just turns so they’re face to face, repeating himself. “A calm day,” Thor says with an approving nod at the sky. “A good day for a ride.”

“A what? A ride?”

“Yes,” Thor says. “Purely for enjoyment. We would like you to join us.”

“We?”

“Fandral and I,” Thor says. “Come, it will do you good to see outside of these four walls.”

And a week ago Clint would have said no, would have climbed back into bed and pulled the covers over his head. Today though, something fragile blossoms in his chest at the invite, and even though he suddenly feels like crying again, he nods.

“Yeah,” he says unsteadily, wiping his hand over his eyes again. “Oh man, I’m sorry. It’s not you making me cry, I promise.”

Thor laughs softly at that. “I imagine you might be feeling rather turbulent,” he says easily. “My Mother says it’s a good thing.”

“I think your Mom broke me,” Clint says with a groan. “I’ve felt about ten million different things already and I’ve been awake for ten minutes.”

“Recovery is hard,” Thor says, sympathetic. “Come. Let’s get you out of this place and out of your head for a while.”

Clint just nods and gets himself washed and dressed, still grateful that he longer has to wear the cast on his wrist. He downs the various array of elixirs he still has to take to keep him healthy, even though he suspects that one of them is at least partly responsible for his current emotional over-reaction. Thor waits patiently in the other room, watching the world go by from the balcony window.

Fandral meets them at the stables, already mounted and urging his horse to clatter across the courtyard towards them at a frankly ridiculous pace. He pulls the horse up a few feet in front of them, so sharply that it rears, twisting around with its enormous hooves way too close for comfort. Clint lets out a yelp and takes an automatic step back into Thor, which is a lot like backing up into a brick wall. Thor and Fandral seem to find this hilarious, laughing and joking and looking altogether far too pleased with themselves. Clint scowls and bites his tongue, mostly because he can’t hear everything they’re saying and he wants to make sure his comeback is worthy.

A few minutes later and he finds himself nose-to-nose with a tall grey mare, her dark eyes looking at him curiously. Fandral stands next to him, bumping him with his elbow and taking great delight in Clint’s apparent discomfiture as he tentatively strokes the horses velvety nose. She snorts and butts at him, nearly knocking him on his ass. Of course, the others find that a great source of entertainment too, grinning as they watch Clint saddle up.

“She knows these lands well,” Thor tells him as he checks the reins and Clint’s footholds. “Let her do the work.”

“Sure,” Clint says, and then they’re off, his stomach twisting in nervous anticipation at the mere prospect of doing something. His horse seems to want to walk alongside Fandral’s steed so he lets her do as she wants, content to sit and look around at the scenery as Thor and Fandral chat in loud and excited voices. The feeling of being left out doesn’t sting as badly as it has done on previous days; he’s happy to watch the built-up walls and roads of the palace give way to open fields and forest, letting his eyes make up for the missing sound.

Thor falls back to ride beside him, getting his attention before he speaks. “We’re heading for the Borgo pass,” he says, pointing ahead across the great expanse of fields. It looks almost like an ocean, with waist-high grass rippling in the wind. “See the valley between the two bare peaks? There is a mountain path that is worth the climb.”

“The valley between the two bare peaks,” Clint repeats aloud, and Thor nods. “If I say Borgo Pass to the horse, will she understand?”

Thor nods. “Of course.”

“Is there anywhere here I’m not allowed to ride?”

“No, you are with me,” Thor replies, a twinkle in his eye. “We should be fine.”

“Alright,” Clint says easily, and then leans down so he can speak into the horse’s ear, hand on her neck. “Borgo Pass, okay girl?”

She harrumphs at him and Clint smiles, looking up at Thor for a moment before digging his heels into the horse’s flanks, urging her on. She takes off like a lightning bolt and Clint can’t contain his whoop of delighted laughter as they take off, charging through the grass and leaving Fandral and Thor behind in a dust-cloud.

“We’ll show them,” Clint says, bracing himself and urging the horse to full gallop, standing up in the stirrups and letting his thighs do the work. “Come on, beautiful, show me what you’ve got.”

His recently healed leg aches but he barely notices, too busy with galloping across the fields, ducking around low hanging branches and jumping narrow brooks, mud and water splashing everywhere as he does. He looks behind him to see Fandral and Thor giving chase, but not gaining. He feels reckless and stupid and like he could start crying all over again, something swelling in his chest as he rides, the wind whipping through his hair and stinging his eyes.

It’s a good fifteen minutes later when he slows, laughing as the horse splashes through a stream, sending small birds scattering everywhere. His chest is heaving and good-god is he cold, but he feels refreshed in more ways than one.

The horse tosses her head and he urges her out of the water, patting her neck. “Good girl,” he soothes. “Well done, beautiful. You did great.”

Her ears flick and she turns to meet Thor and Fandral, who are both grinning ear to ear. “You liar!” Fandral exclaims. “You dirty, rotten liar!”

Thor laughs. “Leave him be, he never said he could not ride,” he says, amused. “We assumed he could not.”

“I grew up in the circus, horses everywhere,” Clint pants. “So, can we have it on record that I beat you?”

“No,” Thor says firmly. “You used deception so it doesn’t count.”

“It does too count,” Clint says. “I’m going to tell Bucky that I beat you.”

He only realises what he’s said when Thor gives him a cautious look, as if suddenly bringing Bucky into the conversation might cause him to have a mental breakdown all over again. He swallows hard and looks down, trying to seem nonchalant. He probably misses by a mile.

Thor comes closer and waves to get Clint’s attention. “A few more miles then a well-earned meal,” he suggests. Clint nods, not trusting his voice to stay steady, kicking the horse into action and taking off once more.

 

* * *

 

They stop for lunch at the base of the mountains, right at the mouth of the valley. The streams they have spent the morning splashing across have turned into wider, deeper rivers that rush past, hurried and frothing as they tumble down towards the plains. Thor starts a fire going as Fandral unpacks lunch. Clint decides to take a breather and sits near the fire, gazing out over the river and watching it rush past. Unfamiliar long-legged birds pick their way through rushes on the bank and the horses mill around behind them, tucking into the grass.

It still sucks that he can’t hear what’s going on around him, but the thought isn’t as bitter and sharp as it has been. He’s not accepted it yet, not by a long shot, but as he watches the river and the strange creatures and feels the warmth of the fire on his bare hands and face, he thinks that maybe he could learn to live with it.

Fandral and Thor don’t seem to give a shit about his quietness today; they talk and joke between the two of them, sit with him and have conversations between themselves, sometimes repeating things for him and asking him odd questions. He’s happy for the most part to be left out of it though, getting himself used to the sensation of missing out on what is being said.

He’ll just have to trust people to tell him things he needs to know. Have to trust the rest of the team to not leave him out all of the time. That’s a tall order though - a lot of requiring other people to be super-aware of and super-accommodating to his deafness.

A hand pushing at his shoulder rouses his attention, and he _hmmms_ at Thor, looking across at him.

“You seem deep in thought,” Thor says. “Not too deep, I hope?”

“Just thinking,” Clint says absently. “A lot to think about.”

Thor inclines his head in understanding. “If you wish to talk about any of it, I will do my best to listen. We’ll leave Fandral out of it though, he gives terrible advice, simply terrible.”

Fandral kicks out at Thor. “I object to that,” he says, leaning back against his pack with his hands behind his head. “Though I know where I’m not wanted. Have fun with your emotional conversation, I’m going to nap and dream of large-breasted women.”

“Whatever floats your boat, pal,” Clint shrugs, picking at a twig and then tossing it into the fire. He pauses and then reaches inside his jacket for the Allspeak ball. Not that he’s _gonna_ talk about it with Thor, but...he’ll keep it in hand. Just so he doesn’t lose it.

“Who is it this week?” Thor asks Fandral.

Fandral just grins, eyes still closed. “A gentleman does not kiss and tell,” he yawns. “Leave me be, I’m napping.”

Thor rolls his eyes, reaching for a wineskin. “A man of simple vices,” he says, and raises the wineskin in Fandral’s direction. “To Fandral’s love of women.”

“To Thor’s love of smashing things with hammers,” Fandral replies.

Thor laughs openly at that. “If only that were my only vice,” he says, good-natured in his self-depreciation. “I would say my pride is still my biggest downfall.”

“You’re not as bad as you used to be,” Clint says, dragging his fingers through the grass and picking up another stick, twisting it between his fingers. “You and Tony both used to be pretty...egotistical.”

“True,” Thor concedes, passing Clint over the wineskin. “Fatherhood has certainly muted Tony’s ego.”

“And Steve’s temper,” Clint says, and then pulls a face. “Mostly.”

“Yes, I would agree that that is Steve’s worst quality,” Thor says. “For as level-headed as he can be, he can be equally quick-tempered.”

“And stubborn,” Clint says. “He’s really stubborn. Though I think I share that one. And probably a few others too. Being lazy. Half-assing paperwork.”

“Go on then, what is your true vice?” Thor asks. “If you could choose only one.”

“Daytime TV,” Clint replies instantly. “I’m a sucker for it.”

Thor gives him a reproving look. “Maybe avoidance is yours?”

Clint huffs with soft, surprised laughter, tossing the stick into the flames. “Shit, you’re right. Okay, you get wisdom on the virtues column.”

“I can only hope I can earn wisdom as one of my virtues,” Thor says. “I like to think I have grown in patience. And that I listen.”

“Yeah, I’ll give you that,” Clint says. He glances over at Fandral who still has his eyes closed, though he could easily be pretending. “Bucky’s good with listening too. He’s...actually, he’s pretty good all round. People don’t give him credit for how good he is with dealing with shit. He’s always the one keeping his cool and sorting the rest of us out.”

“That he is,” Thor agrees. “He is remarkably level-headed for someone who has been through what he has.”

“Jealous asshole when the mood takes him though,” Clint says.

Thor looks surprised at that. “Really?”

Clint grins. “Yeah, did you not hear the story of the waiter in Reno?”

Thor’s brows climb even further. “Yes, but you two were not together then?”

Clint’s smile goes rueful. “Yeah, me and Tony decided that the over-reaction was down to him not understanding his feelings. Steve banned us from saying it to Bucky’s face though, so we’ll never know.”

Thor snorts. “So much for Bucky being the level-headed one.”

“Gotta let him have his vices too,” Clint says. “It’s alright. He’s less jealous now we’re actually like official.”

Thor nods. “Do you miss him?”

“Oh god, yeah,” Clint says, and feels a curl of emotion in his chest, too much and not enough at the same time. He tries to clear his throat, focussing on staying calm and not descending into tears again. God, it’s so strange after weeks of feeling nothing.

“May I ask, why did you choose to leave him?”

“I didn’t leave him,” Clint says. “He’ll know that. I...it wasn’t him.”

“Just the whole situation?”

Clint shifts, pulls his cloak more securely around him. He doesn’t speak straight away, gazing into the flames and thinking about what happened, thinking about what Frigga said to him when they had breakfast.  “Steve, actually,” he finally says. “It was because of Steve.”

“How so?”

“He…he lost his temper with me. Arto was a mess, and I was a mess, and Arto went for Bucky and I should have stepped in to help, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”

Thor frowns. “He should not have assumed he had your support while you were recovering.”

“No, he shouldn’t have,” Clint says. “But I guess he was just doing what he had to do for his kid. But I couldn’t do it, so he basically told me to do one and walked away.” He swallows hard. Thor stays quiet, waiting for more. He runs his thumb over the Allspeak ball, remembering what Frigga said about his feelings towards Steve. “I guess. I guess Steve’s the one that…he’s always thought the best of me. He’s the guy we all want to do well for, you know? And then he walked out on me like he didn’t care.”

“He does care for you,” Thor says, brow knitting together in worry, maybe sorrow. It's not pity though, so that's okay. “He truly does.”

“I know,” Clint shrugs. “Well, I thought I knew. Your Mom seems to think he’s a – he’s a father figure for me or some shit.”

“Where is your own father?”

“Dead,” Clint says without inflection. “He’s barely worth the memories, you know? Such an asshole. He was the one-” he takes a deep breath, fingers tightening on the Allspeak ball. “He was the one who beat the shit out of me when I was nine, sent me deaf in the first place.”

“You’ve experienced this before?”

“Oh yeah,” Clint says. “Being deaf was a staple of my childhood. Barney always helped me out as much he could, but when push came to shove Barney chose Barney. Don’t blame him at all.”

“Your brother,” Thor says. “I’ve heard you speak of him before. Usually in the terms of _‘useless sack.’_ ”

Clint huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s the one,” he says. “I give him a hard time, but he was there for me when we were kids, you know?”

“You are very brave,” Thor says, from nowhere. “Bravery comes in different forms, I think. It’s not just the braveness of warriors that counts.” He stops, a smile hitching at the corner of his mouth. “And now I think I understand why you and Arto are such kindred spirits.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, looking up at the pale-blue sky above him. His eyes are too warm again, dammit. “He’s a good kid.”

“As are you,” Thor says, and laughs as Clint throws the wineskin at him.

“Just because you’re like a thousand years old doesn’t make me a kid,” he says. “But I appreciate the sentiment. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Thor says easily. “Now. Lunch, and then we leave Fandral here and head to the top of the mountain without waking him?”

Glad to have the conversation over – but also glad to have had it - Clint exhales heavily, blowing out through his mouth. “Sounds like a plan.”

 

* * *

It’s dark when they decide to return to the city, and from their perch way up above in the hills, Clint is treated to the wonder that is the lights of Asgard. The lights and torches of the city are like a thousand candles flickering below, all orange and pink balls of light shimmering off of the golden walls of the palace. The stars above are just as bright, stunning flecks of white and gold in a navy-black sky. It takes Clint’s breath away, and Thor obligingly halts the ride so Clint can just sit and look, observing the lights spread out below them while the horse shifts underneath him and his breath mists on the air in front.

 _Bucky would love this,_ Clint thinks, eyes finding the glittering colour of the Bifrost in the distance. The northern lights haven't got shit on this.  _So would Steve, and Arto._

They ride back in companionable silence. Fandral has forgiven them for leaving him behind after lunch, remarkably willing to see the funny side of their stunt. It’s been a good day but a long day, and when they get back Clint is tempted to just retreat to his bed and sleep, but he finds himself unceremoniously hustled into a tavern by Thor and Fandral, flanked on either side like they’re guards and he’s a recalcitrant prisoner.  

The tavern is big and rowdy and in high-spirits, though Thor guides them to a table at the back which is set on a slightly raised dais, away from the main throng of the crowd. He takes the Allspeak ball from Clint and sets it on the table between them, even though Clint is exhausted and would be quite happy to sip his ale and just watch the rest of the room. He’s turning into Bucky, he thinks. Bucky’s a pro at sitting in silence and just watching. Maybe he could teach Clint how to do it meaningfully, rather than just absently people-watching.

Fandral is mid-way through a rambunctious tale of his latest conquest when they’re joined by another figure; an astoundingly tall, astoundingly handsome man with dark skin and golden eyes, who sets his helmet down on the table with a thud, gesturing for a drink and sprawling back in his chair like he’s perfectly used to sitting in the company of the Prince.

“Heimdall!” Thor exclaims warmly. “Good of you to join us.”

 _Heimdall, the watcher,_ Clint thinks. Crap, someone who a) has better eyes than him and b) has possibly seen him do some highly embarrassing or not too admirable stuff over the years.

“This is Clint,” Thor says. “Clint, this is Heimdall.”

Heimdall turns his golden eyes on Clint, offering a hand to shake. “Welcome to Asgard, Hawkeye,” he says, and his voice is deep and rich and just as handsome as his face. “I have seen you in action over the years, your skill with a bow is truly impressive.”

“Uh, thanks?” Clint says, but he can’t concentrate on that because he’s thinking about the time he fell in a dumpster and the time he robbed that liquor store when he was fifteen and _oh god_ that time he and Bucky had absolutely filthy sex in that motel in Tulsa. His face is going beet-red just thinking about it and oh shit, Thor has often said that Heimdall watches _everything_. “Do you…I mean, how much do you actually watch?”

Heimdall, Thor and Fandral all burst into laughter. “I exercise discretion,” Heimdall chuckles. “Believe me, there are some things I know not to watch.”

“Good to know, I guess,” Clint says, trying not to think about the Tulsa motel room and how the cleaning staff had probably called it in as crime-scene after they’d left. He sips at his own ale as a woman brings one for Heimdall, winking at Fandral as she does. “Doesn’t watching all day get boring?”

“On the contrary,” Heimdall says. “Life across the Nine Realms is varied and fascinating. I always say that our willingness to watch is the most powerful weapon that we have.”

Clint shoots a glance at Thor, who appears to be very interested in his ale. He can’t know for sure, but he maybe thinks that Thor has orchestrated this meeting on purpose.

“How is the North Border?” Thor asks.

“Safe and silent,” Heimdall says. “Jotunheim is silent also. A peaceful day across the Realms.”

“So can you see across all the different worlds?” Clint asks, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Most things, many things,” Heimdall says. “Some dimensions are closed to me, the shadowy places between worlds. And some enemies know how to cloak themselves from my gaze, though this is few and far between.”

“Wow,” Clint says, and Heimdall smiles at him.

“Clint has the gift of sight too,” Thor says, gesturing to Clint with his tankard. “He can see further and at a better quality than most Midgardians.”

“Truly?” Heimdall asks, intrigued.

“Uh, I guess?” Clint says, awkward at being put on the spot.

“He isn’t usually modest,” Thor says, tone conspiratorial. “He would usually be bragging and challenging you to some sort of game to prove your worth.”

Clint elbows him hard, but Thor doesn’t seem remotely abashed. “A man does not count himself as an Avenger by being unsure or uncertain of his own ability,” he says with a knowing tilt of his head, and then mercifully changes the subject, attention back on Heimdall. “How is Jane?”

“Arguing with Bruce and Lilya and in her element,” Heimdall reports. “Stark has finished the refractive lenses she needed and so she is happily setting up new experiments.”

Thor smiles, obviously relieved. “I shouldn’t strictly use Heimdall to watch over my own personal matters,” he admits to Clint. “But it relaxes me to know she is safe.”

“I get that,” Clint shrugs and then looks to Heimdall. “So, is Jane the only one you know about?”

Heimdall smiles. “No, I tend to look upon the Avengers at least once a day,” he says. “They are entertaining, to say the least.”

“I think our new friend is angling to know about his own sweetheart,” Fandral says, and Clint nearly chokes on his ale.

“He is _not_ a sweetheart.”

Thor laughs long and loud. “No, no he is not.”

“James Barnes, the Winter Soldier,” Heimdall says, and he looks like he’s enjoying himself very much. “No, a sweetheart he is not. Well, I knew you were coming to stay with us so took the liberty of keeping an eye on him, and I can tell you that he has spent much time bonding with the small Rogers child, then spent the last two days working in Atlanta.”

“Oh man, he hates Atlanta,” Clint mutters. “Is he okay?”

Heimdall takes a deep swig of his ale, licking his lips. “Yes, yes, he appears in fair spirits. Last I saw, he was at a standstill and captivated by a display of wedding rings in a store in Washington DC. I was just leaving my post as he went inside.”

This time Clint _does_ choke on his ale. Half of it goes down the wrong pipe and he starts to cough violently, eyes watering so much that Heimdall’s words blur in the air above the Allspeak ball.

“He did _what?_ !” he gasps, as Fandral thumps him on the back to try and get him breathing again. “Oh _god._ ”

It takes him a few moments to regain his composure. Heimdall looks calm but there’s a twinkle in his golden eye that Clint is very suspicious of. Thor is clearly trying not to laugh and Fandral is openly cackling.

“What, what is he doing?” Clint manages to ask.

“Planning to marry you?” Fandral suggests. “Unless he has someone else he’s going to wed in secret.”

“No, no-one else,” Heimdall says. “I would know.”

Clint claps his hands to the side of his face. “Oh my _god._ What – he’s – did he buy one? No, wait – I don’t want to know. What is he thinking? I run away and he – I fucking leave him behind and he decides to look at _wedding rings?”_

“Apparently so,” Thor says bracingly. “Well, there it is. You no longer need to worry that he or the rest of the team wish you ill after running away.”

“But Bucky-” Clint stalls as he recalls Frigga’s words about his future family, about Bucky being the one it could happen with, and he loses the ability to talk.

“Clint?” Fandral says cautiously, waving a hand in front of his face. “Thor I think he’s going into some sort of shock.”

“Get him another ale,” Heimdall shrugs.

“But he can’t marry me, I’m deaf,” Clint manages to say.

Thor pats him on the shoulder. “I do not think you being deaf is going to stop that man from loving you,” he says. “Just like I do not think you being deaf is going to stop you from being an Avenger.”

“Yeah okay,” Clint says blankly, as another drink appears in front of him, as if by magic. He stares at the foam on top without really seeing it, mind stuttering on _‘marriage, Bucky, marriage, Bucky,’_ in some sort of messed up feedback loop. He blinks, shaking his head from side to side and feeling dazed, like he’s taken a blow to the head.

“Avenger. Right.”

“Drink your ale,” Fandral advises.

“Yep,” Clint says, and does as he’s told.

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky sits on the edge of his and Clint’s bed, wondering if he has gone officially insane. On the shelf, next to the stolen – liberated – purple gem from Wakanda sits a small velvet box, its lid proudly open. Inside sits a simple silver band, the inner surface a deep purple that takes on a metallic violet sheen when it catches the light. He’d honestly not planned on buying anything when he’d gone into that dumb fuckin’ shop but he did and now there’s no going back.

He’s going to do it.

Even though his boyfriend got blown up and nearly died and ditched him and ran away to Asgard without so much as a heads-up. Even though he and Clint have never been further apart, he’s still going to do it.

Not to get Clint to come home - so he’ll have to make sure Arto doesn’t find out about it - but just because it’s the right thing to do. He can feel it in his gut. Ever since Italy, he’s been thinking about it, and this way everything between him and Clint will be solid and real and no-one can ever doubt it again. Not even Clint.

“Fuck,” he curses, getting up and grabbing the box, snapping it shut and shoving it into his pocket. It sits incriminatingly heavy against his thigh, and there is no way he can just hold onto this and wait. He’s meant to be good at playing the long game but dammit Clint makes him crazy in all the best-worst ways.

He’s out of his room before he knows it, kicking the door shut behind him and belatedly hoping it hasn’t woken anyone. Jarvis lights the corridors for him as he strides towards the elevator, needing to find someone to talk to before he explodes.

And there’s only one person he’s going to even attempt to explain this emotional clusterfuck to.

“Steve!” he yells, striding across the penthouse and going to bang on the bedroom door. “Steve, I need help!”

There’s a stirring from inside, sleepy and confused murmuring. That’s okay, at least they weren’t screwing. “Steve,” he calls again, banging on the door with his metal fist. He’s about to give up on being polite and just open the door regardless when he hears footsteps and then the door opens.

Thankfully, it’s Steve and not Tony who opens the door. Less thankfully, Steve has decided not to get properly dressed and is wearing nothing but a pair of boxer-briefs that look _way_ too small and do absolutely nothing to hide his modesty.

“I think I’m done giving Clint space,” Bucky says without preamble, eyes fixed resolutely on Steve’s face. The urge to make a filthy joke is strong but he bites his tongue, because _priorities_. “I think I want to go and get him and I think he needs a smack upside the head. Metaphorically.”

Steve yawns widely, screwing his face up. There are pillow lines on his face and his hair is a disaster. “Jeez, Buck - could this not have waited?”

“No,” Bucky says. “Nope. Absolutely not. There’s an engagement ring in my pocket and I need to do it before I chicken out.”

“You, chicken out?” Steve says, genuinely confused. Bucky loves him a little bit for the fact he’s more confused about Bucky being scared, rather than being confused about Bucky saying he’s got an engagement ring.

“Shut your hole,” Bucky says, just as a sleepy and similarly befuddled voice comes from further inside the room.

“Is that Red Peril and did he just say engagement ring?”

“Yes he did,” Bucky shouts over Steve’s shoulder and then turns back to Steve. “Steve, c’mon, help me out. You got all your stuff. The husband and the kid. My turn.”

Steve clenches his eyes together tightly. “I’m not entirely sure I’m not dreaming,” he says, leaning against the door and shaking his head, clearly trying to wake himself up a little. “You - what?”

“Oh screw this, I’m going to ask Jane to send a message to Thor,” Bucky says. “You’re useless when you wake up, you know that?”

“Buck, wait,” Steve says, grabbing his shirt in his hand to keep him from walking off. He rubs vigorously at his face with his free hand and emerges looking slightly more cognizant. “I’m awake, I promise. And I fully support your plan to marry Clint, if that’s what you want.”

“I do want,” Bucky says. “Don’t ask me why, but for some reason I want it. Stability, and security and family and all that stupid stuff. It’s been bugging at me since before Clint left and it’s not going away.”

“Tell him he can have Arto for a whole week,” Tony’s sleep-thick voice calls. “That’ll kill any urge to procreate.”

Steve hastily steps out of the bedroom, simultaneously pushing Bucky back and pulling the door shut behind him, probably so Bucky can’t yell anything back at Tony. “Right. Let’s go for a run. Come on.”

“It’s three AM, Steve.”

“You came to me,” Steve points out, letting go of Bucky. “Come on. Run and tell me all about your sudden urge to start a family.”

“I’m not being dumb, am I?” Bucky says suddenly, then almost immediately curses himself for being so open and vulnerable. He looks down, resists the urge to shove his hand in his pocket to hold onto the box. “I’m probably talking shit, I don’t exactly deserve-”

“Stop talking,” Steve interrupts firmly, setting his hands on Bucky’s shoulders. “You have earned the right to happiness in your life, Buck. I am telling you. As America, I am granting you permission to be happy in your life.”

“America grants me permission,” Bucky repeats flatly.

“Yep,” Steve yawns, then visibly shakes himself again. “Now let’s go for a run and talk about feelings.”

“Oh sure,” Bucky scoffs. “Since when have you wanted to talk about feelings instead of eating your feelings?”

“Since the feelings aren’t mine,” Steve says without an ounce of shame. “Now come on. If we go now we’ll be back before Arto gets up, then I can wake him up for once, see how he likes it.”

“I can’t decide if you’re a terrible parent or the best,” Bucky observes.

“It’s a fine line,” Steve says, and claps him on the shoulder. “Go get your running gear, I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Bucky salutes, hiding a grin as Steve scowls and shoves him away towards the door.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up - Clint makes a brief, one line (poorly pitched) joke about previously feeling suicidal. Thor advises him that it's probably a dumb joke, and he apologizes.

“Well, it was supposed to be a milk run. One of those in and out jobs, retrieve some data from some mad Italian scientists, you know? We've done it a hundred times, which is why only me and Bucky went. Like, Bucky probably could have done it on his own, but Steve doesn't like any of us being alone when we're not Stateside, that's his whole over-protective streak kicking in. Anyway, but obviously it went balls over ass. Big explosion. I got hurt in a big way, crushed organs, broken bones, the works. Like apparently I died for like a few seconds?” 

As he talks - or rambles - Clint continues with the methodical sweep of brushing: hand up, drag down, sweep left. Hand up, drag down, sweep left. “They got my heart going again pretty quickly, so maybe I wasn’t dead. I think it counts as being dead if your brain stops? I dunno. But anyway. Bucky was so mad because I’d fake-died. He gets angry at things he can’t fix. And angry at things that piss him off.”

The horse swings her head around, nuzzling at his shoulder. He feels her side move as she harrumphs softly at him, a gentle heave of her ribs against him. 

“Yeah, I know,” Clint says absently. “He’s not as bad as he was. I mean, he doesn’t get angry at the toaster anymore, so progress, right? He still threatens Fury like once a week but he doesn’t take it out on inanimate objects. Though that’s probably to do with the fact he says he can’t afford to fix everything he breaks, rather than him dialing down the anger. Maybe it’s both.”

He trails off, his hand following the path of the brush and feeling the soft smoothness of the horse’s coat, brushed to a shine. It’s solid and warm and real under his hand and he feels calmed by it. Steadied. 

“I’d say yes,” Clint says suddenly, mind as always on the revelations Heimdall had thrown his way that night in the tavern. Over a week ago now, but still stuck in Clint’s brain like it’s been superglued. “If he actually asks, I’d say yes.”

The horse turns her head and fixes him with a baleful stare. It’s as if she’s saying,  _ ‘of course you would, idiot.’ _

“No, you don’t get it,” Clint tells her. “I have a pathological fear of commitment. It’s in my SHIELD file. I self-sabotage to prevent impending negativity. Like, I can ruin my life on my terms but I won’t let anyone else do it. Does that make sense? Well, I’d let Bucky. Not that he would, but he’s a person I won’t push away even if it did look like he was gonna hurt me.”

He mulls it over for a moment, hand stroking the horse’s flank, brush forgotten in his other hand. “And Arto,” he adds. “He gets a pass, too.”

Even as he says it, he thinks back to the day he left, what happened just before he tucked-tail and ran. Oh damnit, his SHIELD file was right.

“Should have given Steve a pass,” he says with a groan, and he leans forwards and presses his forehead to the horse’s side. She shifts a little but he doesn’t get up, just sways with her movement. “That’s like textbook Clint Barton,” he says. “Steve upset me so I ran away before he could - god, I’m such an idiot.”

He feels the shudder in the horse’s side as she huffs at him, moving enough so that he has to lean back. She turns her head towards him, nuzzling down towards him palm.

“I already gave you all the food,” Clint sighs. “Thor says I have to stop sneaking you treats, apparently you’re on a very careful diet.”

The horse doesn’t seem to care about a) the diet or b) the fact Clint is out of food, just gamely carries on searching his hands and jacket for any hidden-away pieces of fruit or pastry. Clint laughs softly and fondly pats her neck, and then looks up as the stable doors at the far end sweep open, flooding the place with weak morning sunlight.

“Back here,” he calls, ducking under the horse’s neck. Sure enough it’s Thor, coming to check on him as he always does. He looks pleased for some reason, striding across the space as the horses around him toss their heads and prick their ears up in greeting.

“I have something to show you,” he says when he’s sure Clint can see his mouth moving. “If you are finished with your friend.”

“She’s not my friend, she’s my therapist,” Clint says, and glances back towards the horse. “I was going to take her out. I promised, and she’s already grumpy that I’ve not got any more cake on me.”

“You and that horse shall both get fat if you keep eating cake for every meal,” Thor says, but he’s grinning. “Come.”

“If you insist,” Clint says, and quickly says goodbye to the horse, with a promise to return later. He stows his brush away and follows Thor outside, pulling his cloak around him and shivering. Damn, Asgard is getting colder by the day. “What is it?” he asks. “Is it Fandral again? Where has he woken up this time? Or has Volstagg done something?”

“No and no,” Thor says, and he’s still smiling, eyes shining. “Have you taken your elixirs this morning?”

“Yes, stop asking,” Clint says, resisting the urge to roll his eyes like a stroppy teenager. “I’m not going to just stop, seeing as they make me feel less like killing myself.”

Thor winces. “Maybe less of the flippancy,” he advises. “I know you’re joking by now, but not everyone does.”

“Mostly joking,” Clint says, and then sighs and concedes the point, imagining the look on Bucky’s face if he were to say something like that. “Okay maybe that was a bit much. Sorry.”

It dawns on him that they’ve passed from the Royal Courtyard and are heading out away from the Palace, a route Clint has never taken before. He’s not sure where they’re heading and as such is on high alert - looking around constantly, letting his eyes make up for what his ears are missing.   “Where the hell are we going?” he calls as they walk towards the outer wall, and then his brain stops because  _ that’s the edge of the Bifrost _ and they’re heading straight towards it and that can only mean a few things.

His feet stop as if he’s suddenly found himself knee deep in concrete, or victim to a dropped sticky-arrow. He stares at the rainbow bridge in front of him, suddenly feeling like he could puke or cry or both. 

“Thor, wait,” he calls helplessly. “Please tell me we’re just going to visit Heimdall.”

Thor slows to a halt, his back still to Clint. His cloak snaps in the breeze and he looks towards the Bifrost for long moments, before slowly turning around. His expression is calm and it makes Clint want to punch him. If this is happening, then now is not the goddamn time for being calm.

When it becomes apparent that Clint isn't going to move, Thor walks back towards him. He reaches out to take hold of Clint’s shoulders. “They will be here in a few moments,” he says kindly and evenly. “I thought it would do them good if you were there to greet them.”

“They?” Clint croaks.

“Well, Bucky asked to come,” Thor says, with a small smile that’s apologetic but not quite guilty about what he’s done. “And I doubt we will get him without Steve, and with Steve comes Arto and quite possibly Tony. Natasha is also very much looking forwards to seeing you again, which in turn might mean Wilson will accompany her. And Jane may decide just to come along, I know she said she would bring Lilya to see Asgard at some point, they have become quite close friends in the past few years.”

Clint swallows hard. “So I might get Bucky, or I might get the entire contents of Avengers Tower.”

“Not Bruce,” Thor says triumphantly, like that’s all that counts. “He says he doesn’t know how the Other Guy will react to travelling on the Bifrost, so has elected to stay at home.”

“Wow,” Clint says, and he knows that he should try and make his feet move again, but he can’t. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”

Thor’s hands squeeze his shoulders. “You can do this,” he says. “You are doing better than ever, and you have been away from your family for long enough. You need them by your side to finish healing.”

"But-"

"Clint, listen to me. You need them, now. And they need you, too."

And dammit, Thor is making sense so Clint is dazedly nodding, allowing himself to be pulled gently back into motion, stepping onto the Bifrost. It’s both stomach-churning and spectacular, walking along nothing but light, watching how it flares hot-white every time he sets down a foot. _Just keep walking,_ he tells himself. _That's all you have to do. Walking isn't a big deal, you can do that. Don't think about what comes after the walking, just walk._

It seems to take an age to walk the length of the bridge, the urge to throw up coming and going. His _'just keep walking'_ mantra doesn't hold up so well, not even when he starts mentally singing it, Finding Nemo style. In amongst all of the turmoil and his attempts to not think about it _at all_ , he finds that he wants to see Bucky more than he wants to breathe right now, but he doesn’t know how Bucky is actually going to be with him after Clint abandoned him. It’s the same with Arto - Arto doesn’t historically do well with being left behind, so he might be none too happy either. And Steve-

There’s no time to dwell over Steve’s potential reactions though because they’re at the end of the bridge and Heimdall is there, welcoming them in. They’re barely through the door into the golden dome before Thor is gesturing to Heimdall to proceed. Heimdall nods at Clint and then ascends the steps in the center of the dome to the raised dais, using his sword to power up the machine, and everything is happening so fast-

“Hang on, can we just-" Clint blurts out, but he's way too late. The whole inside of the dome is filled with bright bolts of lightning, and then the front of the dome is shifting and moving, some apparatus spinning. Clint can only faintly hear the rumble it makes but he can definitely feel it, reverberating in his chest and making the floor underneath his feet shudder, and for a moment he thinks the whole place is going to shake itself apart-

A beam of light shoots from the Bifrost and it’s like a mouth opening up, a great maw tearing open in the fabric of space. A gateway of light appears where there had previously been nothing but blackness and stars, and then out of the light appear two - no, three figures, stumbling through and materializing into solid form as the Bifrost slowly powers down, its job done.

Clint tries to make a sound, but he can’t.  The silence he's used to by now suddenly seems to weigh a ton.

For long seconds, no-one moves. No-one speaks as far as Clint can tell. The whole world pauses, a moment frozen on a held breath-

“Whoa,” Steve shatters the moment, pink cheeked and windswept, huffing out a laugh. “You alright?” he says to Arto, who is at Steve’s side and safely wrapped in what looks like every coat he owns, plus a hat and mittens. Arto nods frantically and then he’s laughing and laughing, pressing his face into Steve’s chest and shaking with hysterical giggles. 

And behind them, looking pale and seasick and way too uncertain, is Bucky. He steps forwards and his eyes meet Clint’s, full of way too much emotion. “Hey,” he manages to say hoarsely, and then he doubles over and throws up.

“Shit!”

Steve steps smartly out of the way and Arto is shrieking at Bucky, and Clint is moving without thinking about it, running over and grabbing hold of Bucky’s shoulders.

“Oh my god, how do things like this still make you throw up?” he asks, pulling Bucky upright. His hands skitter over his shoulders and head, checking that he’s okay. 

“Shut up, jerk,” Bucky says weakly, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and then pushing Clint's hands away. “Act more pleased to see me.”

“Oh my god,” Clint says again, and then he’s yanking Bucky to him, flinging his arms around his neck and clinging onto him like his life depends on it. And thank god, Bucky reciprocates, wrapping both arms around Clint’s waist and hugging him so tightly that he can barely breathe. Clint is half-laughing, half-sobbing into Bucky’s shoulder when he feels a thump in the small of his back. He struggles to extricate himself from Bucky’s grip, pushing himself back so he can turn to look at Arto.

“Buck, give me a second,” he says, and Bucky lets him go so Arto can jump at Clint, nearly knocking him backwards. He grips on just as tightly as Bucky did and Clint can feel his ribcage being squashed out of alignment. 

“Easy there,” he gasps. “Arto, you’re crushing my spleen.”

“You don’t have a spleen anymore,” Bucky reminds him, sounding suspiciously strangled himself. “Arto, stop squashing him.”

And Arto is easing off but not letting go, his face still buried in Clint’s chest, arms locked around him. Bucky is squashing in at his side, one hand on Arto’s back, his mouth pressed to Clint’s shoulder as he breathes heavily. And then Steve is there, stepping up in front of Clint and looking like he might cry too.

“I’m so sorry,” Steve says, and whoa, Clint wasn’t expecting  _ that _ . Steve making the first move to apologize is not something he considered happening, but here it is. “I shouldn’t have-”

“Oh god please don’t,” Clint says quickly, his own voice too high. “It’s okay, we were both assholes, I’m okay, please don’t make me cry.”

And Steve is laughing and nodding, eyes still too bright but he’s stepping and and hugging Clint too, squashing Arto between the pair of them. 

“Da-ad,” Arto whines, shoving Steve back. “Wait your turn.”

“You can stow it,” Bucky says and then adds something that Clint doesn’t catch, and for a moment Clint panics and thinks that Arto will object to Bucky talking to him like that, but all Arto does is reach out and shove at Bucky’s side, sticking his tongue out.

Damn. Even with Steve stopping the emotional-talk, Clint thinks that he’s going to cry regardless. He screws his face up against the onslaught of emotions, burying his nose in the short hair behind Bucky’s ear. He needs to say something. Needs to say sorry, or to ask Bucky if they’re okay, or if he’s going to propose or not, for fuck’s sake.

That last thought tips him over the edge, and he spends a few moments fighting with the tears, trying not to full-on sob on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky seems to realize that he’s in a bad way and reaches up to gently cup the back of Clint’s head, and oh god, that just makes it worse. Clint hastily pushes back away from Bucky, roughly wiping his eyes. What do people do when they want to avoid important and potentially upsetting things? Oh right, small-talk.

He clears his throat, looks at Steve. “Tony not here?” he asks, and Steve shakes his head.

“No, he’s at home,” he says, and pauses. “But he did send you these.”

He slips his hand into his pocket and Clint knows what he’s going to hand over even before Steve tips them into his palm: his hearing aids. His eyes well up again, but at least this time round his stomach doesn’t seize up with fright, his brain doesn’t automatically throw him back to being nine and vulnerable and ashamed. He stares down at them for a moment and then nods jerkily, closing his fingers around them.

“Even if I did,” he says slowly, voice far too thick. “I’d need - I wouldn’t be fixed. I’d need help.”

Steve nods. “Whatever you need,” he says. “We’ll work it out.”

“Not right now,” Clint adds hurriedly. 

Steve nods, looks down and says something else that Clint doesn’t have a hope in hell of following. He’s about to say something but Bucky beats him to it; Clint feels Bucky say something and catches the faintest edge of sound, and then Steve lifts his chin.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’ll work on that.”

Clint wants to say that Steve doesn’t have to work on anything, but if they’re all going to help him be part of the family and the team again, who is he to turn that down? Instead, he just nods mutely, holding onto Bucky that bit tighter.

Thor’s voice calls out behind him, a burr of sound that Clint lets wash over him. Bucky and Steve can hear it; they’ll get him to where he needs to be.

Two hands reach up and press against his cheeks; he looks down to meet Arto’s eyes. “Can you hear me?” Arto says, and Clint shakes his head. Arto seems to process that for a moment. “Is your leg still broken? Are you still all bruised?”

“No, I’m fine,” Clint says. “Feeling a bit…”

“Not red?” Arto offers. “Multicolored.”

Clint looks down at him for a moment, momentarily stymied. “Did you just say multicolored?” he asks, and gets a vigorous nod in return. “Is this your color thing? Like when you said Bucky was a rainbow?”

Arto nods. “Red is easy,” he shrugs. “You’re not right now.”

“Alright, let’s go with that,” Clint says. Arto nods and buries himself into Clint’s side, hiding his face in his shirt and winding an arm around Clint’s middle. Bucky takes Clint’s other hand and gently tugs, and Clint follows Steve and Thor, sandwiched between Bucky and Arto and clinging on tightly to them both.

  
  


* * *

 

They wander back into Asgard with a remarkable lack of fuss; people look Thor’s way and incline their heads respectfully but there’s no reaction or excitement around Steve and Arto for once, which is a welcome change of pace to New York. Arto sits atop Steve’s shoulders, looking at everything with his mouth hanging open, face full of wonder and talking non-stop to Thor. Knowing Arto, most of it will be questions that he’s way too excited to hear the answers to right now, but it’s not going to stop him asking.

Clint and Bucky walk behind, Bucky holding Clint’s hand tightly in his metal one. He looks like he’s dealing with some shit, has that pinched look that screams of decompressing after some emotional upheaval. Clint lets him have the time, just holds onto him tightly and hopes Bucky can read his mind and knows how sorry he is for leaving. He's not sure the words would make any sense if he said them out loud; he feels a bit dazed and not altogether with it. 

They head into the palace, and to the same chamber in which Clint had breakfast with Frigga. She isn’t there as they go in, though the table is once again set and laden with food, and the ravens are on guard duty by the archway. One flaps its way over to sit on Thor’s shoulder, beak pulling at his hair much like it did to Frigga.

Clint finds himself pushed into a chair by Bucky, and then two seconds later Arto is scrambling his way up onto his knee, just like he used to do when he was six or seven. Clint's first thought is that he's way too big for it, but then he changes his mind. Eh, he’s only eleven after all, kid has plenty of time to grow out of it. Though honestly, Clint has money on Arto still being clingy when he’s twenty-one. 

He meets Steve’s eyes over the top of Arto’s head; Steve nods at him but Clint has to look away. He has a sort of handle on how it’s going to go with Bucky now that they've got the initial meeting over with, but with Steve...it's complicated. He’s still not sure where he stands with Steve, and he suspects it’s going to take some horrible  _ talking  _ to sort.

Fingers tap the back of his hand and he looks over to see Bucky gnawing his lip worriedly. 

“I’m alright,” Clint says, probably too loudly. He winces and shifts Arto around so he doesn’t have an elbow sticking into his solar plexus, settling with Arto leaning back against him. His arms are wrapped around Arto’s middle, struggling a little with Arto’s bulky coat. “I’m taking Asgardian anti-depressants and stuff to deal with my missing spleen, all my bones are fixed and everything is okay.” 

“Antidepressants?” Steve says.

Bucky glances at Steve then back to Clint. “I don’t think your healthcare plan covers Asgardian antidepressants.”

Arto cranes round to look up at him. “What’re antidepressants?”

“Stuff that makes me feel less multicolored,” Clint tells him, and Arto nods then turns to Bucky. He says something and Bucky shakes his head.

“Nope.”

“What? What did he say?” Clint says and pokes Arto. “I can’t hear, you have to be looking at me so I can read your lips.”

Arto twists his head round, leaning back so Clint can see his face. “But I was talking to Bucky, so I can’t look at you when I’m talking to Bucky, that’d be rude.”

Steve visibly sighs, looking at Arto a little forlornly. “Oh sure, when Tony’s not here for me to high-five, he says that.”

“I am always polite,” Arto grins at Clint. “I asked Bucky if he took antidepressants too.”

Well, ouch. Clint winces but Bucky just looks quietly amused. “No,” Clint tells Arto. “Bucky’s good at dealing with stuff. He’s okay.”

Bucky’s watchful gaze goes unimpressed. “Why are we talking about me? I thought we were here for you.”

Steve replies and then Arto says something back, and just like that the conversation is happening without Clint being part of it at all. He grimaces; it’s been the same over the past few weeks. One-on-one he’s fine lip reading and having a conversation pretty much normally, with an occasional break for repetitions, but when there’s a group of people he begins to struggle. Bucky’s the first one to notice, glancing at Clint and cursing under his breath.

“You’re not keeping up, are you?” he says, though it’s clear he doesn’t need an answer.

“It’s okay,” Clint replies. “I mean, you’ll tell me if I miss anything important, right?”

Bucky’s expression goes fleetingly pained. “How do I know what’s important for you?”

Clint blinks back at him. “Well, you just know, don’t you? I mean, if anyone’s going to know, you’ll know.”

Bucky opens his mouth then but just as quickly closes it, lips pressed hard together. His eyes are back to being too bright and he  _ never  _ cries, it takes so much to make Bucky cry and he’s been on the verge of it since he got here-

And Bucky is looking away, and Clint glances around and sees that Steve and Arto are looking around too. He belatedly glances over to see Thor rising out of his seat, heading over to the door to greet a hoard of unexpected arrivals: Fandral, Volstagg, Hogun  _ and _ Sif. Christ, it’s like a tidal wave of Warriors bursting into the room, and of course they’re all fully suited up in their gear and carrying weapons, because bringing swords and axes to breakfast is just what the Warriors do. After a brief moment of taking it all in - and boy, are the Warriors a lot to take in - Steve remembers his manners and gets up to greet them all, smiling and shaking hands, but Bucky stays exactly where he is, looking at the Warriors with a carefully guarded expression, much like they’re a bomb that someone has asked him to defuse.

Clint only looks away from the meeting by the door when Arto impatiently pulls at his ear, making him look down again.

“Who are they?” Arto asks, looking more confused than anything else.

“Friends,” Clint replies, shifting Arto on his knee and pointing with the other hand. “Uh, that’s Fandral, Volstagg, Sif and Hogun.”

Even as he says it, Fandral peels away from the throng by the door and beelines for Clint. Grinning, he perches on the arm of Clint’s chair, leaning over to pluck a grape from the nearest bowl.

“Good morning,” Fandral says brightly. “I’m Fandral. I’d leave it to Clint to do the introductions but he’s pretty hopeless.”

Clint wildly looks back and forth between Fandral and Bucky, and is just in time to catch Bucky frowning and saying, “James Barnes.”

_ Shit, _ Clint thinks, even as Fandral says something back and then Arto chips in, sticking his hand out for Fandral to shake, just like Nick Fury taught him to do when he was like eight. However, Clint can’t be amused at Arto because he’s preoccupied with Bucky, who only introduces himself as James when he’s a) on mission, or b) wary of and/or pissed at whoever he’s talking to, and he’s back to looking pinched and tight and not nearly as relaxed and friendly as he normally is.

The rest of the Warriors descend on the table in short order, appetites clearly as hearty as ever. Clint can sense how loud and raucous it must be, and Arto slipping off of his knee and clambering onto Steve’s lap only confirms his suspicions that it’s all a bit much. To make room for Volstagg, Clint has to push his chair right up next to Bucky’s, and Bucky immediately takes his hand, holding onto it tightly with his metal one. Fandral stays perched on the arm of Clint’s chair, occasionally tapping the back of Clint’s free hand to get his attention, repeating things for his benefit, or gesturing to whoever is trying to talk to him. Clint appreciates it, but he doesn’t appreciate the way Bucky’s metal fingers clench slightly whenever it happens; he really doesn’t want that hand going back into a cast.

He finds he just has to tune out the entire thing, giving up on participating and hanging onto Bucky’s hand, shrugging ruefully at Steve when Steve looks at him, concerned. Steve mouths something at him and Clint frowns back, shaking his own head slightly. Steve doesn’t roll his eyes or get impatient or anything, just repeats himself, and this time Clint gets it. 

_ “Bucky needs a break.” _

Clint nods immediately, poking Fandral and making him get up. Expression questioning, Fandral does, but Clint just smiles and then pulls Bucky up too. He decides to momentarily ignore Bucky’s half-annoyed, half-questioning scowl and pulls him out of the room and away from the chaos. He feels slightly guilty leaving Arto, but he seems content enough with Steve, and also had clearly been pretty taken with the Warriors so maybe Clint can be let off this time. 

He leads Bucky on his well-worn path through the palace and to his room - well, not his, but the one he’s being staying in. Biting back on a wince of guilt, he pushes open the door and ushers Bucky in, before shoving the door closed again, hands pressing onto the pattern of concentric rings.

“You okay?” he says, but Bucky isn’t facing him so he doesn’t know if he gets a reply. Bucky does a circuit of the room, mapping exits and sight-lines, glancing over the collection of vials on the nightstand and looking warily at the force-field window like it’s personally slighted him.

“Buck?”

Bucky turns abruptly. “That guy,” he says, with a meaningless gesture of his hand, pointing to nowhere in particular. “The one sitting on your fucking knee.”

Clint blinks at him, and then fights a sudden and hysterical urge to laugh. Oh god, he’d  _ told _ Thor that Bucky was a jealous asshole, and somehow he’d completely forgotten about it. Bucky’s turned up here to reconnect with Clint and one of the first things he sees is Fandral being his usual charming self, getting all up in Clint’s personal space and being there for Clint in a way that Clint had just asked _Bucky_ to be. Bucky had threatened to stab that waiter in Reno for less.

Unfortunately, something must show on his face because Bucky’s scowl only intensifies. “Fuck you,” he says bitterly, hands balling into fists. He doesn’t turn away, though. “Don’t you dare laugh at me, I’ve not seen you in weeks and I get here and find you having the time of your life with every other fucker.”

The urge to laugh vanishes and Clint sobers up pretty quickly, because this isn’t regular annoyed-ranting Bucky, this is Bucky sounding broken and sad and vulnerable, and that’s all Clint’s fault. He ends up walking towards Bucky as if on autopilot. Bucky still doesn’t turn his back on Clint like he so easily could. He just stands there, jaw clenched tightly and bottom lip wobbling as he glares ferociously at a spot on the floor a few feet away.

“Buck,” Clint says helplessly, and he’s reaching up to cup Bucky’s face in his hands. Bucky doesn’t meet his eyes and as he makes a half-hearted effort to jerk away, the tears spill over and track fast and hot down his cheeks. It really hits Clint then, just how much this whole mess has hurt Bucky, how much Clint’s absence has hurt him.

“I love you,” he blurts out, and Bucky’s eyes finally flick up to meet his. “God, I’m so sorry I left you. I just messed up, and I always mess up because I’m Clint Barton, but I just don’t want to have really messed up-”

“Will you stop saying messed up,” Bucky snaps, and reaches up to roughly wipe his eyes. He breathes in and out so heavily that his shoulders lift and fall a few inches. Nevermind Clint, Bucky is clearly a mess too. Clint leans in, pressing his forehead to Bucky’s, relieved when Bucky doesn’t pull away or push him back. His breath comes warm and quick over Clint’s face, so familiar that Clint aches with it.

“I missed you,” Clint murmurs, honest with Bucky in a way he rarely is with anyone else. “Being without you was like missing an arm.”

“Not fucking funny,” Bucky says, his hands going to Clint’s hips, and then he’s suddenly moving, leaning in and bridging the gap between them, pressing his mouth to Clint’s. Clint knows he makes a funny, desperate sound in the back of his throat but it hardly seems to matter because Bucky’s arms are coming up to wrap around him, pressing them so closely together that he almost pitches the pair of them right over.  

It’s like they’ve been jump started, like they’ve suddenly woken up. One moment they’re standing there, breathing into the scant spaces between each other’s mouths, and then they’re kissing, kissing like they’re not going to get another chance. It’s like the adrenaline kick from a battle, how they get after a near-miss or an injury. Clint supposes it is really - this is the first time they’ve properly been able to touch each other since the explosion in Italy.

Bucky’s hands are everywhere as they kiss hot and open mouthed, one going down to Clint’s ass as the other slides up his shirt, metal fingers tracing his ribs. Clint gasps, tipping his head back and letting Bucky bite a kiss into the skin of his throat. Before he knows it, Bucky is walking him backwards forwards the bed, tripping him up the step and falling with him onto the pile of pillows and furs.

“Christ, Buck,” he gasps. Bucky is crawling over him, kissing his jaw and panting something against the side of his face. He misses it completely though, and has to literally plant his palm on Bucky’s forehead and push him back, meeting his eyes.

“I can’t hear you unless-” he begins, and frustration flickers over Bucky’s face.

“Sorry,” he says, and pushes himself back up, sitting across Clint’s thighs and running his hands through his hair, leaving it sticking up every which way.

“Don’t be, hang on,” Clint says, and wriggles and twists to shove his hand into his pocket. He pulls out the hearing aids. Maybe his pocket isn’t the best place for them really, though Tony knows him well so has probably made them pretty durable. He fiddles with them a moment, turning them on, but before he can put them in Bucky reaches out and stills the movement of his fingers.

He lifts his eyes, meets Bucky’s concerned grey ones.

“Are you sure?”

Clint takes a deep breath and then nods, slowly slipping the hearing aids in. He winces and then waits, blinking hard at Bucky. He waits a bit longer, half expecting to suddenly be able to hear birdsong and rustling leaves and goddamn fish splashing about in the river outside, but he doesn’t.

“Clint?”

And he almost collapses in relief because _he heard that._ He heard his name as Bucky said it, uncertain and worried. It didn’t sound right though, didn’t completely sound like Bucky.

“Say it again,” he says, and  _ whoa, _ he can hear himself again, more than he could before. 

“Clint,” Bucky says again, and it still doesn’t sound quite right but  _ goddamn  _ it’s better than nothing. “Clint? Have you fucked them up by keeping them in your pocket?”

“I can hear you,” Clint says, and has to dial it back because whoa, shit, that’s  _ really loud. _ “I can hear you, it’s okay,” he says, reaching up to touch his ear. “You sound different.”

“Tell Tony,” Bucky says. “He said that they won’t be perfect straight away, but you can bet your ass that he’ll engineer the shit out of them.”

“Course he will,” Clint says, and offers up a weak smile. Bucky smiles back, just as wavering and uncertain, carefully lying back down at Clint’s side, propping his head on his bicep and watching Clint with cautious eyes. The atmosphere between them has completely changed from the desperate and needy kissing of a few minutes ago. It seems much calmer now, though no less important.

“Keep talking to me,” Clint whispers, shifting onto his side. “I can’t hear any background noise, but I can hear you.”

“What do you want me to say?” Bucky asks, reaching out with his free hand and gently brushing a wayward chunk of hair away from Clint’s forehead. He keeps pushing his fingers between Clint’s hair, his palm on his forehead, slowly repeating it over and over again like he’s brushing Clint’s hair with his fingers. 

“Anything.”

“Well,” Bucky says, mouth twisting as he thinks it over. “Arto and me...well, we made friends while you were away. We bonded over you being an asshole.”

Clint cringes a little, and Bucky just huffs out a half-laugh. “He had a few days of tantrums,” he carries on. “Then he came to find me. Guess he figured out that the only person that missed your sorry ass more than he did was me. So, after that he decided to become my very own personal shadow, and employed me as both his official spaghetti maker and nail-polisher.”

Clint feels himself smiling. “And here I thought it’d take end of days for you two to actually get on.”

“Mmm,” Bucky says. “I think he’s figured out than me and him are a lot alike. I understand part of him that no-one else is going to. Maybe Nat, I guess.” He sighs and shifts up onto his elbow, leaning over Clint with his metal hand resting on Clint’s chest, fingers splayed out over his sternum. He looks very serious all of a sudden and Clint automatically thinks  _ oh shit what’s gone wrong, _ and then his brain goes to  _ engagement ring, he was shopping for engagement rings, has he got one, is he going to ask? _

But no, Bucky just carries on not-proposing, watching him for long, quiet seconds. He can probably hear Clint’s heart thudding, it’s that goddamn loud. 

“I love you, you fucking mess,” Bucky says quietly, and then leans in to gently kiss Clint again. This time Clint takes the time to enjoy it, eyes fluttering closed as Bucky kisses him.

“Can we get back to the sex then?” Clint asks. “Now I can hear you whispering sweet nothings and all that? I mean, I assume that’s where this was heading.” 

“That’s where it’s always heading with me and you,” Bucky shrugs, and he reaches down to pull at the belt of Clint’s trousers. “Come on then, strip.” 

“That’s not romantic!” Clint protests, but Bucky is busily yanking his trousers open with little or no finesse.

“We don’t do romantic,” Bucky says absently.

_ ‘Proposing is romantic,’ _ Clint thinks but he manages not to say it out loud. “No,” he says instead, agreeing. “We really don’t.”

“Glad we’ve got that sorted,” Bucky says. “Now strip.”

“I will if you will,” Clint says, and Bucky’s answering grin makes him feel like he never left home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Clint wakes up buried in his usual pile of furs and blankets, with Bucky lying behind him. He can just about feel the warmth of Bucky’s body, but the few inches between them seem much too wide. Trying not to let any more of his skin meet the cold air, he rolls over and buries his face into the back of Bucky’s neck. Bucky makes a disgruntled sleepy sound, and then before Clint can even think about making another move, he’s lurching upright and rolling out of the bed, grabbing his knife off of the nightstand on the way.

“Shit,” Clint curses, blinking blearly. “Buck, calm down, it’s me.”

Bucky stands there for a moment, completely naked. He blinks and then seems to register where he is, scowling and lowering his knife. He mutters something, dropping his knife back onto the table and then reaching into the bed, pulling the covers aside and rooting through, evidently not caring that Clint is freezing his balls off.

“Buck!” he yelps, grabbing for the blankets. “Get back in the damn bed, you maniac.”

Bucky ignores him; he’s succeeded in finding his underwear and is pulling them back on. Right. Abject dislike of sleeping naked, incase he has to get up to stab things. 

“Please get back in the bed?” Clint says, pulling the covers back up over his shoulder and fixing Bucky with a beseeching look. Bucky lets his underwear snap into place over his hips and then visibly slumps, before nodding and climbing back in.

“C’mere,” Clint mutters, pulling Bucky close and hissing as the metal arm brushes his skin. Bucky grunts what could be an apology, wrapping his arms around Clint and throwing a heavy thigh forwards over Clint’s hip.

They both doze, losing track of time. Clint tries not to think; he just wants to be here in the moment, wants to take stock of what he has. Frigga taught him that: to not dwell on what has happened and what could have been. She said she’d seen men driven mad by second guessing and living in the past. Clint had understood all too well; first of all, he’d seen Steve when Steve had first turned up in their century. Secondly, he’d dealt with Bucky when  _ he’d _ reappeared.

Clint was finding that the past sucked, mostly. 

But then again, when he’s having a good day he finds it easier to remember positive moments in his past. The day he rescued Arto. The time he first kissed Bucky. Even stupid small things like that time that everyone almost died from laughing when Steve called him a whore as they were playing Mariokart. When Nat bought him a coffee from Starbucks when he was on lockdown in medical. When he and Tony got the wrong side of tipsy at that gala, and spent the evening on the balcony, sitting on the floor and hiding from an over enthusiastic senator. 

It’s funny that he hadn't noticed his temporary inability to recall happy memories until Frigga pointed it out. 

Bucky stirring draws his attention; he lifts his head from under Bucky’s chin and looks tiredly over at the door just in time to see Arto slipping through it, wearing a Hulk all-in-one sleepsuit with the hood pulled up. Bucky groans and shoves his head back down, but Clint just holds out a hand, feeling a huge rush of relief that Arto is there.

“Can you hear me?” Arto says as he runs up, clambering onto the bed. He wipes his nose on his sleeve, looking at Clint eagerly. 

“No, I’m still deaf,” Clint replies. “What do you want?”

“To see you, you went away yesterday,” Arto says, sitting cross legged next to Clint. “Steve said I had to give you and Bucky alone time.” He rolls his eyes so hard as he says it that he probably strains something.

Bucky says something and Arto makes a show of fake-gagging, hands around his throat and tongue hanging out. Amused and wanting to know what’s so funny, Clint looks back over his shoulder at Bucky and then reaches out a hand. “Arto, give me my hearing aids.”

Arto brightens visibly at that, craning around and looking to where Clint is pointing. He passes the hearing aids over like they’re made of glass, watching as Clint turns them on and slips them in.

“Can you hear me now?” he asks, and Clint smiles tiredly.

“Yeah.”

Arto frowns. “Then why didn’t you just do that to begin with?”

“Yeah Clint, why didn’t you just do that to begin with,” Bucky yawns, and rolls over to shove an arm around Clint’s waist. “We talked about that, Art. Leave him alone.”

“You leave him alone.”

“No. I’m gonna hug him all day and you can’t stop me.”

“I can. I want to hug him, you’ve had your turn!”

“You can’t hug him,” Bucky says, and Clint can actually hear the grin in his voice. “He’s naked under here.”

Arto screws up his face, flapping his hands at them both. “You’re gross,” he insists, shoving at Clint’s pillow and then shuffling towards the end of the bed. “I’m going to find Steve.”

He gets as far as the door and then stops, turning back around to look at them and suddenly looking very uncertain. He twists his fingers into the cuffs of his pajamas like he’s six all over again. “Will you come for breakfast?” he asks. “You’re not going to go anywhere, right?”

“We’ll come for breakfast,” Clint promises. “Give us an hour.”

Arto nods and then he’s gone, without bothering to close the door behind him. Bucky sighs audibly and flops back down onto the bed, rubbing at his eyes with metal fingertips.

“Sorry,” Clint says. “I don’t want to leave-”

“I know, I get it,” Bucky interrupts. “I just. I guess I want to keep you wrapped up here with me, where I know you’re safe. I didn’t really get to do it before.”

“Sorry,” Clint says again, and winces. “I’m saying that a lot, huh?”

“And I’ve not even got to actually being pissed at you, yet,” Bucky says. He turns serious eyes on Clint. “You fucking left me,” he says abruptly. Clint has to fight the urge to defend himself or say something because this is going to  _ suck _ , but he doesn’t. He at least owes Bucky the time to say his piece.

“I know it was between you and Steve, that you left because of what Steve said to you,” Bucky says. “But the way you did it was fucking selfish, Clint. You ran away because you were scared and felt abandoned and you did the same to me. And I got it, but it didn’t mean I liked it, or I was happy about it.”

Clint has to clench his jaw tight, fighting against the guilt and the urge to hide. He nods jerkily, staring at the corner of his pillow.

“If we’re gonna do this,” Bucky says slowly, like he’s treading a path across a minefield. “I need you to not do shit like that.”

And that pings an alarm in Clint’s brain. The 'if' suddenly seems to fill up his entire brain, roaring at him in full volume. “Do what?” 

Bucky just shrugs. “Do what we’ve always done,” he says. “If we’re going to do this for the long term. If we’re going to make this work.”

“It does work,” Clint says around the lump in his throat, because there are more scary ifs there and he's starting to fixate. “Right?”

“You running away and not talking to me does not work for me,” Bucky says bluntly, and he’s starting to sound angry now. “You’re allowed to be apart from me, I would have fucking understood if you said you needed to be away but you didn’t even give me the courtesy of telling me that’s what you wanted to do, you just left us. And, by the way, that made Arto feel like shit too.”

Silence falls between them, too loud. Clint swallows, hard. “You done?” he finally says. 

Bucky rears back, full of anger and affront. “For  _ fuck’s sake, _ Clint-!”

“I heard you,” Clint quickly says, trying his best not to cry. “I heard you, I listened. Sorry about the attitude, I just. Can’t say right now. You kept saying if, and that scared me. I want to put it right. I want to be with you, please don't say if and make it sound like we're not going to work because I can't deal with that.”

He both hears and feels Bucky exhale heavily. “Yeah, okay, I’m done,” he says after a moment. “Said my piece. If you can promise me that - I don’t know, that you heard what I’m tryna say, if you’ll try, then I’m done. I won’t bring it up no more.”

“You’ll forgive me?” Clint asks lightly.

“Of course I do, you asshole,” Bucky says, and he’s taking hold of Clint’s chin and making him look up. “I love you so much, you dumbass.”

“Jerk,” Clint manages to say, and the tears spill over. He laughs shakily, wiping his face with his wrist. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky says simply, and folds him into a hug. “Cry all you want, pal.”

Clint does. He slumps into Bucky and lets himself cry, knowing in a weirdly self-aware way that he’ll feel better once he’s done. 

It doesn't take long. He's got it dialled down to sniffling within a minute, though doesn't really want Bucky to let go of him yet. "M'alright," he mutters.

“That was the easy part, you know,” Bucky says, stroking his hand over Clint’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, how so?” Clint sighs, pulling away and sitting up.

Bucky smiles lopsidedly at him. “You still gotta have it out with Steve yet, and Tony’s not here to keep a lid on him.”

Clint groans. “Will you at least be there to keep a lid on him?”

“Me and my Glock at your service,” Bucky says, and leans over to press a smacking kiss to Clint’s mouth. “Come up, we need to wash up if we’re having breakfast. Hop to it, Sweetheart.”

Clint takes a deep breath and then nods, hoping that he sounds braver than he feels. “Bring it on.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who continues to share Counterpart verse with me. Your comments about these stories give me life, and make the hard work more than worth it. 
> 
> As always - queries, prompts and headcanons about this verse are more than welcome. Hit me up on tumblr.

"Here.”

Bucky passes Clint over the pot of coffee, though changes his mind halfway through and goes as far as to pour Clint his drink, setting the pot down and then nudging over the sugar. It’s only when he catches sight of Clint’s rueful and amused smile that he realizes that he’s fussing quite so badly but he shrugs it off and carries right on. His protective streak wasn’t fully allowed to be appeased after Clint got hurt, so he’s making up for it now. Clint will just have to suck it up and deal with him fussing.

“Thanks,” Clint says quietly, leaning in and kissing Bucky’s shoulder, the closest piece of Bucky he can reach. Bucky slips his hand on to Clint’s knee, gently squeezing in reassurance. Clint has been clingy as all hell since they got up this morning and it’s easy to work out why. Even Steve, with his emotional range of a brick, would be able to work out why Clint is being clingy.

The clinginess, Bucky can deal with. Though if Clint says sorry one more time, Bucky might have to do something drastic. They've had it out so that should be it; moving on to moving on.

He sits back in his chair and watches Clint, Steve and Arto finish off the rest of their breakfast. Clint seems calm enough, though he keeps looking around a lot, and also keeps reaching up to touch his ears. The aids aren't visible unless you look real close, a telltale flash of purple. Arto seems so excited to be here it’s unreal; he’s out of his seat every four seconds to look out over the river or the flowers or the birds. Steve is letting it happen, chatting to Arto with a softly amused look on his face.

“So, what’s the plan?”

Clint’s voice draws everyone’s attention. He’s finished with breakfast, his fingers now drumming restlessly on the arm of his chair. Steve just shrugs, handing Arto a piece of peeled fruit. “Up to you.”

Bucky rolls his head on the headrest of the chair, turning back to Clint. “Yeah, up to you,” he tells him. “We’re on official vacation for the next three days, so we’re easy.” 

He thinks he detects a faint hint of panic in Clint’s expression at that, so decides to step in and make the call for him. “Actually, I think today we go exploring.”

Clint blinks at him. “Exploring?”

Arto perks up. “Exploring?”

“Well, we’re not just here for your pretty face,” Bucky says with a grin. “We’re on vacation, I want to see some of the sights.”

“Yes,” Arto says immediately. “I want to explore. Steve, can we go exploring? This place is so cool, we can go and look around, right?”

“Up to Clint and Bucky,” Steve says easily. Arto at once fixes Bucky and Clint with laser-focus eyes, beseeching expression firmly in place. He probably thinks it works better the closer he is, because he slips off of his chair and beelines for Bucky and Clint, clambering up onto the side of Clint’s chair.

“Please, please, please, please, please.”

“Okay, okay, we’ll go, get away from me, you’ve got cheese breath,” Clint says, wrinkling his nose and planting his palm on Arto’s forehead and pushing him back. Arto jumps back with a delighted yell, sending the ravens in the doorway scattering into the air, cawing angrily.

“Jesus, Art, calm down,” Steve says, but Arto is now definitely too excited to listen. He runs back to the open wall, swinging on the balustrade and looking out over the lake again. Bucky watches him with a grudging sort of fondness, finding that maybe it’s not too bad that Steve got his way about bringing Arto. Though there is an almost dormant part of him that is in mission mode, going _‘Arto, water, risk, unacceptable,’_ in the back of his brain. He's just about managing to ignore it.

Christ, what is he gonna be like if he and Clint ever have a family? Just look at how over-protective he’s been of Clint today, how hyper aware of Arto he is. God, and think of all the jokes he’s made about Steve being a helicopter parent. Even as he thinks it, he reaches down to slip his hand into his pocket, checking that the ring is still there. Not in a box, because he doesn’t want to be a walking cliche, but still held safe and sound.

“Buck?”

He brings himself back to the moment, smiling lopsidedly at Clint and leaning in to kiss him. “Alright, I’ll go find Thor, ask him where the best places for exploring are,” he says, climbing to his feet.

“Can I come?!” Arto is there at his side in an instant, hand slipping around Bucky’s arm and pulling. “Can I, please?”

Bucky braces himself, letting Arto take hold of his hand and pull. He doesn’t succeed in moving Bucky at all, just lolls backwards dangerously far. “Yeah, sure,” he says. “I’m not dragging you though.”

Arto laughs and wraps his arms around Bucky’s bicep; Bucky just shrugs and lifts him clean off the floor, much to Arto’s delight. 

“Steve, I’m taking this,” Bucky calls as he heads towards the door, Arto still cackling madly and hanging from his arm. “You coming?”

“Uh, you take Art,” Steve says from behind him. “Clint, can I have a word?”

Ah, shit. Outmanoeuvred by a tactical genius. Bucky pauses and turns to look at Clint, but Clint just shrugs. “Yeah, sure. Buck, you go,” he says, sounding casual but giving himself away by ramming his hands in his pockets.

“You sure?” Bucky asks, because he would rather shoot himself in the foot than let Clint go through any more suffering. He’s had enough, dammit.

Clint nods again, and the corner of his mouth hitches like he’s trying to smile. “Yeah, Buck, I’m sure,” he says. “You and your Glock aren’t needed.”

Steve rears back indignantly. “What? Were you planning on shooting me?”

“No, only intimidating you a little if you were gonna be a shit-head,” Bucky says, and then adds a fake but pointed “Ow,” as Arto thumps him in the ribs. 

“Stop calling people names,” Arto tells him sternly.

“Stop being small,” Bucky replies with a roll of his eyes. Arto just pulls a face at him, all sticky out tongue and crossed eyes, so Bucky resumes his meander towards the door, swinging Arto as he goes.

“Are they gonna shout at each other?” Arto asks as they leave the room, Bucky backing up into the door to push it closed with his shoulders. Bucky feels a small pang go through him and responds by picking Arto up and slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Arto just rolls with it the same as he’s always done at being carried around, tapping out a rhythm in the small of Bucky’s back. 

“No,” Bucky says, and hopes they don’t make him a liar. “They’ll talk and probably shed lots of manly tears.”

“You’re weird,” Arto says, and Bucky just shrugs. “Hey, remember when we talked that time when we were watching Maleficent? When I asked if you were gonna marry Clint?”

Bucky slows his pace a little, suspicious. “Yeah?”

“You’re gonna ask him, aren’t you? Tony told me.”

“I might,” Bucky says. 

Arto goes quiet for a minute, still tapping at Bucky’s back with his fingers. He’s probably gone bright red in the face from being hung almost upside-down.

“I think it’d make him feel better about being deaf if you did ask him.”

Bucky barks out a laugh at that. “You are such a manipulative little shit,” he says to Arto. “What is with you and the marriage thing?”

“If you’re married then you stay,” Arto replies, like it’s just that simple. “And I think you’d feel better knowing Clint was always going to stay.”

Now that stops Bucky in his tracks. As they grind to a halt, Arto starts to wriggle and Bucky slides him down off his shoulder, distracted. Arto leans against him and then after a slight hesitation, winds his arms around Bucky’s middle, propping his chin on the soft dip just between Bucky’s ribs. Bucky automatically reaches out to push Arto’s hair back from his face, making sure to be careful with the metal one. 

“You think  _ I’d  _ feel better,” he echoes, somewhat doubtfully.

“Yeah,” Arto says, and he's somehow talking easily to Bucky in a way he sometimes doesn't seem to be able to with the others. No stammering, no requests to write it down.  “We’re like sort of the same and I feel better when I know people are going to stay. So you’d probably feel better if you knew Clint had to stay. And I know he’d like it because he’s all gross about you. He’s like Steve is with Tony, but with you.”

Bucky huffs out a laugh. “One, me and Clint are nowhere near as gross as your dads,” he says. “Two...I think you’re right.”

Arto grins at that, practically preening. “I’m smart. I’m half Stark.”

“And you’re growing an ego to match,” Bucky snorts, and runs his hands over Arto’s head again. “You know, this happens and you’re gonna have to deal with the change,” he says, and Arto is nodding vigorously. “No, I’m serious, Short-Round. It’ll be different. Me and Clint - well, whatever happens, we’re still your family, but this’ll mean we’ll be our own family too.”

“But you’ll still be mine?” Arto presses. “Even if you and Clint get married and have kids and stuff, you’ll still be mine, right?”

Bucky looks up at the sound of footsteps; it’s two women walking their way, wearing the tunics and garb of the palace staff. One doesn’t even look their way, just carries on walking, but the other fixes them with a look of undisguised curiosity. Bucky internally sighs; he’s gotten more comfortable with giving affection when other people are around, but that still doesn’t mean he wants everyone commenting on the Winter Soldier handing out hugs like they’re going out of fashion. He doesn’t let go of Arto, but he fixes the woman with a pointed stare and she blushes, ducking her head and hurrying on.

_'And don’t come back,'_ he thinks, then turns his attention back to Arto. “Yeah we’ll still be yours, but you’ll have to share,” Bucky tells him. “If me and Clint get married and do all that, you won’t get first dibs on him anymore.”

Arto nods, arms tightening around Bucky’s middle as he slumps forwards even further. “Tony said that too,” he said. “It’s okay. When you guys are happy then you’ll stay and not leave, so I want you to be happy.”

“That’s like...very selfish and generous at the same time,” Bucky says, and quickly shakes his head at Arto’s confused expression. “Nevermind. What else has Tony said?”

Arto shrugs, still holding on tight. “Um, stuff about Clint making more time for you if you got married,” he says. “And he said something to Steve about you wanting a family so much you’d probably try and knock Clint up, but that doesn’t make sense because fighting won’t get you a family, it’ll just make things go bad again. I dunno.”

Bucky’s mouth falls open in shock and then he bites back his automatic response, closing his eyes for a long few moments and tipping his head back towards the ceiling. 

“Bucky?”

He blows out a very deliberate calming breath and looks back down at Arto. “Ignore everything that your dad tells you,” he advises. “Shall we go find Thor now?”

“Yeah, and then back to Clint and Steve,” Arto says and lets go of Bucky, wriggling away and taking off down the corridor. “Hurry up!”

“You’ll get hurry up,” Bucky mutters with a roll of his eyes, but he’s following Arto without argument, slipping his fingers into his pocket to fold around the safely around the ring as he walks, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

“So,” Steve says easily as Clint watches Bucky and Arto go. Jeez, Bucky hadn’t been kidding when he’d said that he and Arto had bonded. Clint’s not jealous in the slightest; on the contrary, he’s filled with relief so heady that it almost knocks him on his ass. His life will be so much easier now he doesn’t have to be hyper-vigilant of Bucky and Arto all the time. Sure, they’ve been getting on better over the past couple of years but to think they’re actually friends will be so much more relaxing on Clint’s end.

“Clint?”

He blinks himself away from the door and turns to face Steve, who is standing there in front of the table, watching him carefully. Clint rocks back and forth on his heels a little and then wanders over to the balcony-type-wall, leaning forwards and watching the water beyond.

“Alright, let me have it,” he says, eyes fixed on a tree some distance away.

“What? Why would I let-?” Steve begins, and stops midway through his sentence. He’s probably counting to ten inside his head to stop himself strangling Clint.

He moves closer, and Clint risks a glance away from the tree to look at Steve instead. “This might be stupid,” Steve says, and he unzips his jacket a little, dips his hand into his pocket and pulls out a neatly-folded piece of paper. “But I did it anyway.”

“Isn’t that the title of your autobiography?” Clint asks, and Steve just gives him a _ Look _ and then hands over the piece of paper.

“I hate talking about things,” Steve says frankly. “And I know you do, too. So, I thought this would cover it.”

Clint opens the piece of paper up with no small amount of trepidation. When he does, he feels his heart do a strange flip-flop inside his chest and he bites his lip, hard.

It’s a family tree, like the one stuck on the fridge back home. But this one is new and it’s different; first of all, it’s missing Clint’s talent in the form of stick figures. Second, this copy isn't dog-eared and covered in grubby marks and fingerprints; it looks brand new. Beyond that, these are all Steve’s drawings, quirky doodles covering the page. Top right corner is Steve and Tony, joined by a red line. Below them travel the parallel lines of blue and green leading down to Arto, now an eleven-year-old in cartoon form but still with the Bucky Bear in hand. Across on the top left of the page are Bucky and Clint, joined by a bright pink.

“People who aren’t married but might as well be married,” Clint says, reaching out to touch the line.

“Pink? Yeah, figured it fit. Tony and I are red now. People who are finally actually married.”

Clint huffs out a soft, wobbly laugh. He glances over the drawings of the rest of the team and the multitude of yellow lines connecting everyone, with a splash of orange between Thor and Jane, and Bruce and Lilya. Then his eyes find the line that connects Bucky to Steve and the one that connects Clint to Arto - both blue, like they’ve always been. Family that aren’t biological.

But now, there’s a third blue line. One that runs alongside the Steve-Bucky line, joining Clint and Steve in the same matching blue. Clint traces his finger along it, momentarily wordless.

“Yes, Tony made a hundred terrible jokes about incest,” Steve sighs. “But I figured this would show you. Bucky’s my brother alright, but so are you.”

Clint stares at the line, clutching the piece of paper so tightly he has to force himself to relax so he doesn’t rip it. “Steve.”

“I can color it back yellow if you want,” Steve says evenly. “I know you said - I know I was acting out of line, treating you more like - well, I treated you like shit. Probably more like Arto than I should have done. But then again, I figure that I gave you a hard enough time about this whole thing that it  _ should _ be blue. I mean, only family put each other through that shit, right?”

“Right,” Clint says, with another wavering huff of laughter. He blows out a breath, looking up for a moment to try and collect his thoughts. “You. You hurt me, big time,” he says, without looking at Steve. “Right in the feels. I didn’t know you - I kind of didn’t know that you even had the ability to hurt me that bad.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, just watches Clint with bright eyes and waits him out.

“You...you have this stupid ability to make everyone want to be good, even when we can't, even when we're tapped,” Clint says, looking back down at the family tree. “Me included.”

“I didn’t realize,” Steve says slowly. “I guess I sometimes don’t get the pressure I put on people.”

“It’s not pressure,” Clint begins, but screws up his face. “Maybe it is? I dunno. But yeah.”

They stand in silence for a while. It’s okay though, not awkward or uncomfortable. Just time to process and think.

“So,” Steve finally says quietly. “Blue?”

Clint presses his lips together, hard. “I never had a decent dad,” he answers. “I don’t want you to feel you have to be that person for me. I don’t think it’s good for either of us if that’s what it is.”

“I wouldn’t feel comfortable with that,” Steve says, shaking his head. “That’s not what I ever wanted, or intended. I think...I think emotions were running high and we pushed each other into positions we shouldn’t have done.”

Clint nods. “Yeah,” he says, a little helplessly. “Yeah.”

“I’ll change it,” Steve says softly, reaching out for the picture, but Clint holds it to his chest, protectively.

“No,” he says, and Steve drops his hand. Clint shakes his head. “No. It’s blue. It can be blue. As long as you don’t try and dad me, it can be blue.”

Steve’s mouth quirks in a smile. “Okay,” he says. “You got it.”

“Good,” Clint says, and he looks back down at the picture, feeling happier than he has in ages. “You sure that line between Nat and Sam should be yellow?”

“Damned if I know,” Steve snorts. “I’m going nowhere near that, thanks. I mean, I insisted that you and Bucky were just friends right up until he planted one on you, so my judgement isn't to be trusted.”

Clint laughs softly. He looks up again at the water in front of him, smiling as the sun glints off the surface. “Hey, we didn’t do so bad with the talking.”

“No,” Steve murmurs, setting his elbows on the top of the wall next to Clint, leaning forwards to watch the world go by. “No, we didn’t.”

Clint nods absently, watching the water flow past until his eyes blur. Something inside him feels like it’s settled back into place now, a piece of him that was unsure about where he stood has been soothed and realigned. It’s enough to make going home seem like a reasonable prospect, though he doesn’t say it out loud. He needs to talk to Bucky first. And he wants to talk to Bucky about the whole being an Avenger again business. Before, when he was lying in bed with his broken limbs and broken brain, it had seemed impossible. Now though, with Tony’s technological help and the support of the team, it might just work out.

He doesn’t know, yet. Baby steps. Getting home first, then seeing how he and his disability can fit into the team. He’s pretty sure Steve’ll do anything to get Clint back on board - the challenge will probably be getting Steve to hold his damn horses and let Clint do it at his pace.

Besides, there’s other stuff he wants to sort out before tackling Avenger-status again. More along the lines of sorting out his family and marriage status.

“Hey,” he says almost absently. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure,” Steve says. “Unless it’s about your and Bucky’s sex life. That’s where I draw the line.”

“Noted,” Clint says. “It’s about…” he trails off, biting the inside of his lip and wondering if he should just come out and say it or not. “Uh, I’ve had a lot of help while I’ve been here.”

“We’ll continue that when we get you home,” Steve says immediately, and honestly, he’s so predictable some days.

“I know, I know you will,” Clint says. “It’s not about that. It’s - well, Thor’s Mom helped me out loads. Basically appointed herself my therapist.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, wow,” Clint says. “She’s great. But, you know she’s like weaver of fate, or whatever?”

Steve nods, turning around so his back is against the balustrade, crossing his arms across his chest. “Yeah, it’s why I don’t come to Asgard if I can help it,” he admits. “The idea....makes me nervous, I guess. I think if she tried to tell me my fate I’d end up trying to fight it. Not that she would, I mean, she’s got the whole universe to look at, she wouldn't waste time looking at me.”

“Yeah, she loves wasting her time with us,” Clint says. “She said she’s looked at me. Told me...well, some shit about me being important. And she said that...she said that I’d have a family.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks, and when Clint risks a glance at him, he’s grinning from ear to ear. “Clint, that’s brilliant.”

“That’s not brilliant, have you met me?”

“Don’t even,” Steve says, exasperated. “Look, if I can get to grips with being a father, then you’ll be fine. Have you told Bucky this yet?”

“No,” Clint admits. “I don’t know if I should.”

“You should,” Steve says, still grinning like an idiot. “You absolutely should.”

Clint narrows his eyes at Steve. “What do you know?”

“I know he’s so eager to start a family with you that he’s not far off trying to knock you up himself,” Steve says with a snort. “Tell him, Clint.”

“He what?” Clint says. “I thought he was just going to propose!”

It’s Steve’s turn to look suspicious. “Wait, how do you know  _ that? _ ”

“I have my sources,” Clint says, not wanting to mention Heimdall. Steve bitches enough about Tony using Jarvis to monitor them, so there’s no telling how he’d react to the knowledge that he’s often watched by an Asgardian Warrior with magic eyes. He hastily brings the subject back around. “So you’re telling me that - that Bucky really wants all this with me?”

“I’m surprised he hasn't already done it,” Steve says, and Clint feels a strange thrill go through his belly because that means it’s _ true. _ “He woke me up at three AM to tell me he was going to do it, so I don’t know where the urgency has gone.”

Clint shrugs, willing down the butterflies. “Saw me and changed his mind?”

Steve just gives him the Look again. “Stop putting yourself down,” he says. “Bucky loves you, you know that.”

“Yeah Clint,” a loud voice suddenly says from behind them, making them both jump a mile. “You should know that.”

Heart pounding, Clint wheels around to see Bucky and Arto standing there, both with arms crossed in eerily similar poses.

“Uh, how long have you been there?” Clint asks, trying not to cringe.

“Long enough,” Bucky says.

“Yeah, long enough,” Arto echoes, and nevermind him being Clint’s sidekick, he’s clearly turning into a miniature Bucky, which is a terrifying thought.

“Arto, remove the bigger Rogers,” Bucky says, and Arto nods.

“Sir, yes, Sir,” he says, and walks over to take Steve’s wrist, pulling him away.

“Arto, no,” Steve protests, leaning back.

“Yes,” Arto insists, still futilely pulling back on Steve’s wrist, now with both hands. He goes so far as to brace a foot against the wall behind Steve, trying to get some leverage. “We have to go so Bucky can ask Clint to marry him.” 

Clint feels his heart slam up into the base of his throat, and Steve lets out a shocked laugh. “Well, when you put it like that,” he says, and reaches down to grab Arto, swinging him up over his shoulders. Arto accepts it gamely, swinging back and waving at Bucky and Clint, grin firmly in place as Steve carts him away.

“Um,” Clint says, and turns back to Bucky-

-who is slipping his hand into his pocket and pulling something out, something small enough to hold clenched in his closed fist. 

“Oh god,” Clint says blankly, brain short-circuiting. “Is this happening?”

Bucky shrugs and tosses over whatever it is he’s holding; Clint catches it on reflex and finds that it’s exactly what he guessed it would be.

A ring.

Thick, silver and with a purple sheen on the inside. Clint stares at it, wondering if he’s going to a) cry, b) tackle-hug Bucky to the ground or c) fling himself over the balustrade into the lake.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Bucky says as he continues to stare at the ring. “I just want you to know that I wanted to do this before you came to Asgard. The moment you got hurt, I knew I didn’t want to do anything else without you. So this isn’t about getting you home, no matter what Short-Round thinks.”

“What?” Clint croaks. “Wait - _before?”_

“You died on that table, Clint. Or as close as. It about killed me,” Bucky says fiercely. “I was so - so desperate to stay with you that I broke your fucking wrist by holding on too tight. You were the person who was there for me when I came back in, the person who was my friend even though you had no reason to invest in me.”

“You had a terrible sense of humor,” Clint says.

“And you saw that while I was still fucking crazy and climbing the walls!” Bucky exclaims. “Jesus, I don’t know how the fuck this has happened, because on paper it makes no sense. But it has, and I’m going to marry you so that you know how fucking deadly serious I am.”

He pauses, blows out a breath. “If you want.”

“Consent is sexy,” Clint says seriously, and there’s a beat and then they both start to laugh. Clint leans back against the wall, helpless with it, laughing until his sides hurt. It’s okay because Bucky is laughing too, walking over to hold onto Clint like he’s something important, hands on his waist and face settling next to his.

“I’m still a bit messed up,” Clint says. “I’m going to be on antidepressants for the long haul, I think. And Frigga says I need to see a therapist when I get home to address my feelings of inadequacy.”

“Is that what we’re calling them?” Bucky says easily. “Okay. You gonna stick with your Asgardian antidepressants or are we gonna fill you with Prozac when we get home?”

“I dunno, haven’t asked the Healers if I can stockpile and take some home yet,” Clint says, and looks down at the ring in his palm. “If we do this, can we just do it? Go to City Hall and get a ticket and wait in line?”

“You need a marriage licence first, but yeah, we can.”

“You do? How do you know these things?”

“I know a lot,” Bucky says. “Put it on, you’re killing me here.”

Clint does, slipping the ring onto his finger. Of course it fits, he wouldn’t expect anything less from Bucky. “I won’t be able to wear it on my hand, not while I’m shooting,” he says instead of saying something romantic, because he’s an  _ idiot. _

Bucky just shrugs. “Wear it like Steve wears his, then. Or keep it on your shelf with the rest of the crap you’ve hoarded. Doesn’t matter to me.” 

“So we count my engagement ring as crap that I’ve hoarded?”

“Hey, you’d have put me on that shelf if you could have,” Bucky says, and then they’re laughing again.

“You know, we were already pretty married,” Clint says, resting his head on Bucky’s shoulder and looping his arms around his waist. “We have munitions grade tackers for each other.”

“Yeah we do,” Bucky says absently, tipping Clint's face up and kissing him. “We’ve paid our dues. We’ve earned some nice stuff.”

And Clint can scarcely believe that he counts as nice stuff for Bucky, but Bucky is nice stuff for him so he’s not going to undermine it by questioning it. He just kisses him again and then sets his head back on his shoulder, face turned sideways so he can watch the birds skittering over the surface of the water. Bucky seems content enough to stand there, his arms looped around Clint’s back, his chin resting atop Clint’s head. 

Long, peaceful minutes pass. Clint honestly feels that he could stay here all day, just watching the water and feeling the soft thump of Bucky’s heartbeat. Feeling the thump of his future husband’s heartbeat. God, that sounds so weird, even in the privacy of his own head. He’s going to be married, have a husband. He’s going to be a husband. Wow.

“Good morning, gentlemen.”

Bucky goes tense underneath him but doesn’t let him go. Not quite as jumpy as Bucky, Clint looks up and smiles tiredly as he sees Frigga walking towards them, today in a dress of deep brown and stunning gold. She’s smiling openly, looking very pleased about something.

“Morning, Ma’am,” Clint says, and pushes at Bucky to get him to move back a little. “This is Bucky. Bucky, meet the Allmother, Queen Frigga, Ma’am, or Thor’s Mom.”

“That’s a lot of names,” Bucky says, but he inclines his head towards Frigga. “Ma’am.”

Frigga’s smile deepens and she nods back at Bucky. “It’s good to finally meet you, James Buchanan Barnes, Bucky, Winter Soldier. My, it seems you have just as many names as I do.”

Bucky barks out a laugh at that. “Seems so,” he says. “Can I thank you for looking after Clint for me?”

“It was our pleasure,” Frigga says. “He’s been a moderately well-behaved guest.”

“Hey!”

They both ignore him. Bucky’s mouth quirks in a small smile. “Yeah, I’m not thanking everyone else. I’m thanking you, personally. He said how much you’ve done for him, and you didn’t have to do that.”

“Oh Christ, Bucky!” Clint exclaims, feeling his cheeks flush. 

Bucky ignores his embarrassment and carries right on. “The Queen of Asgard shouldn’t have no business helping out half-assed heroes like us,” he says. “But you did, and we appreciate it.”

There’s a long silence, as Frigga lifts her chin and eyes Bucky, her smile faded into something contemplative. 

“You have a way with words,” she says after a while. “And I accept your thanks, and your gratitude. Now, may I be so bold as to request a moment with Clint?”

Bucky nods. “I’ll go find the others,” he says, and leans around to kiss Clint on the cheek. “Not going far.”

Clint nods and lets him go. Frigga watches him leave and then turns to Clint with an expectant eyebrow raised. Clint can’t help it; his mouth is curling into a grin and he’s huffing out a laugh, lifting both hands to cover his stupid-smiling face. He faintly hears Frigga laugh too, but he doesn’t hear her coming closer until she’s taking hold of his left hand, pulling it away from his face so she can examine the ring.

“Is it unbecoming of me to say I told you so?” she asks, and then they’re both laughing again. Clint drops his right hand and looks at the ring on his left, still feeling giddy and like he can’t quite believe it.

“When I first got here,” he says, and Frigga covers his hand, holding it safely between both of hers, “I didn’t think I’d ever be happy again. I didn’t want to be happy again.”

“And now?” 

Clint thinks about it. “I feel happy right now,” he says. “I don’t think I’m back, not yet. I think the next few months are going to suck. Learning to live with this is going to suck. But I think I can do it.”

“Then it’s time for you to go home,” she says. “You are welcome back any time you need to rest, to find yourself again. But I think right now, you need to be home.”

And he’s nodding jerkily, and she’s pulling him into an embrace, one hand on the back of his head. “Well done, Clint,” she says, and for a moment he just stands there, scared of snagging her dress or making a faux pas, but then he just thinks  _ fuck it _ , and wraps his arms around her to hug her back.

* * *

 

  
  


It’s late afternoon, and Clint wanders hand in hand with Bucky through the woods of Asgard, miles of greenery that stretch on and on, unspoiled and peaceful. In front of them walk Steve and Thor - Steve, with the shield on his back like he’s expecting to have to fight something in the woods. Either that, or he’s going to make good on his previously hand-wavey promise to let Arto go sledding on it. Yet further in front of them, repeatedly scrambling off of the path to clamber through shrubbery and over rocks, is Arto. Clint can just about make out his excited yells and Steve’s responses, but it’s all a bit blurred and indistinct.

He can’t hear the river that runs to their right, or the leaves rustling in the trees all around them. He occasionally hears the louder caw of a raven, though the sounds of the smaller birds that flit around are lost. Thor’s voice is easy enough to pick out too, as deep as it is. He can’t hear Bucky breathing but he can hear him when he talks directly to him, which is enough.

A bird darts down in front of them, so close to Bucky’s face that Bucky jumps a little, lifting his hand automatically. He’s not quick enough to swat it, which is lucky, and he laughs ruefully at himself, grey eyes tracking the bird as it darts away. Smiling too, Clint thumbs absently at the ring on his finger. It’s warm, much warmer than Bucky’s metal fingers that are linked through his own. 

“So, I’ve been thinking,” Clint says casually, stepping over a log that lies across the path. It’s covered in rich purple flowers, their smell a sweet edge on the cold air. 

“You, thinking?” Bucky says, squinting up at the canopy of leaves where the sun filters through, occasional bursts of brightness amongst the dappled shade. “That’s dangerous.”

“Bite me,” Clint responds, and Bucky grins. He looks happy, much happier than he did when he’d first arrived. It makes an odd flare of pride burst in Clint’s chest, because his self-esteem may be all over the place but he knows he’s helped make Bucky happy again. “But yeah, I was thinking. I need to thank Tony for making my hearing aids.”

“Yeah, you probably should,” Bucky says, clambering up a set of roughly-hewn stone steps, pulling Clint along with him by their joined hands.

“No, I mean,” Clint says, hopping up the last step. “I should thank him in person.”

Bucky comes to an abrupt halt. He stops on the top step, turning to face Clint with a serious expression in place. Damn. That’s a face that wants to talk about stuff, and Clint was kind of hoping he could just half-ass this conversation. Maybe hell take a leaf out of Arto’s book and start writing people letters.

“You don’t have to come home just because we came,” he says firmly. “You do what you need to do, Clint. Just talk to me about it first, yeah?”

“You can’t ask me to marry you then go home without me,” Clint points out.

“Clint,” Bucky says firmly, reaching up to slide his hands onto the sides of Clint’s neck, a tactic which clearly says  _ ‘do not move, do not attempt to run away, do not try and wriggle out of either my grip or this conversation.’ _ Clint reaches up automatically, holding onto Bucky’s wrists, his own assurance that he’s here for it, no matter if a part of him still thinks talking about it is dumb. “Hear what I’m saying,” Bucky continues. “Don’t do anything just because you think that’s what we want. Do what you need to do, just don’t shut us out.” He looks down, shrugs. “I’ll wait it out. Marry you when you get back.”

Clint thinks about that. A cool breeze tugs at his hair and he shivers a little, wanting to press closer to Bucky for warmth. “And what if...what if I want to come home now and marry you tomorrow?”

Bucky’s brow furrows. “Well we can apply for a licence tomorrow, which is like thirty, thirty-five bucks, but then we’ll have to wait twenty-four hours - what? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“The Winter Soldier knows laws about getting married,” Clint starts to laugh. “Unprecedented and hilarious.”

Bucky scowls. “Well you’re the sucker that wants to marry the Winter Soldier, so you’re part of the joke, pal.”

Clint grins at that. “Guess I am.”

“A fella could go off you, you know that?”

Clint laughs, holding onto Bucky’s wrists that bit tighter, his thumbs brushing against skin and metal. “I love you, you jerk. Let’s go home and get hitched.”

“If you insist,” Bucky says, and leans in to kiss him-

“God, you two are gross.”

Bucky and Clint both turn their heads as one to look at Arto, who has doubled back and is standing there in front of them, swishing a long stick back and forth. 

“Yeah, and?” Bucky says pointedly. “I’m gonna keep kissing him, so maybe you want to move on.”

“Buck-y,” Arto whines, throwing his hands up in the air; the stick flicks and up and down with the motion, dangerously close to Clint’s face. Clint gives him one more ill-advised manoeuvre before Steve takes it off of him. “Can you just not do kissing for like a day?”

“Not happening,” Bucky says, pulling Clint in that little bit closer, so they’re cheek to cheek. “Hey, I’m marrying him just like you wanted. That means in return you stop calling us gross and you let me kiss him as much as I want.”

Arto grins. “You’re getting mar-ried,” he sing-songs. 

“I will if you leave us alone and stop calling us gross.”

Clint starts to laugh. “Buck-”

“Shush, Barton, I’m negotiating.”

Arto rolls his eyes and huffs. “You’re so  _ weird, _ ” he says, then turns away. “Steve! Steve, wait for me, they’re kissing and I don’t want to see it, wait!”  Stick held aloft like a sword, he runs back along the path after Steve and Thor, leaving Bucky and Clint alone.

“There we go, we have permission to be gross all we like now,” Bucky says, and Clint is laughing again as Bucky tips him back in an almost photo-worth dip, kissing him hard. Clint holds onto his shoulders tightly, letting himself be kissed breathless.

Bucky leans back just enough, grey eyes searching Clint’s, happy and bright. “I love you, no matter if you’re deaf or gross or weird. No matter if you’re messed up and on antidepressants, and if your communication sucks. I still love you.” 

Clint smiles and leans up. He’s home wherever Bucky is, and it settles in his belly, warm and right.  “I know,” he breathes against Bucky’s mouth, and kisses him again.


End file.
